


The DI and the Spy 2

by chasingriver



Series: The DI and the Spy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, But only in a very mild sense, Developing Relationship, Domestic Bliss, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Homophobia, Hospitalization, Humor, Intercrural Sex, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, London, Love, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Other: See notes in Chapter 4 for plot-spoiling tags, Phone Sex, Podfic Available, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Running, Sequel, Shower Sex, Sub!Mycroft, dom!lestrade, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 76,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2171979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/pseuds/chasingriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their unconventional introduction in The DI and the Spy, Mycroft decides to accept Greg's offer of "running lessons". (This is a direct sequel to The DI and the Spy, and certain plot elements will be confusing if you haven't read it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [探長與間諜2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3440288) by [onpu1234](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onpu1234/pseuds/onpu1234)
  * Translation into Italiano available: [The DI and the Spy 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10242176) by [chasingriver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/pseuds/chasingriver), [Toujours_Malfoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toujours_Malfoy/pseuds/Toujours_Malfoy)
  * Inspired by [The DI and the Spy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/558609) by [chasingriver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/pseuds/chasingriver). 



> Also available as [podfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6626431).
> 
> Thanks so much to **blanketfortheshock** , who Britpicked this for me in record time and did an amazing job.
> 
> A huge thank-you also goes to **onpu1234** for all the amazing hard work and time she put into translating this story into Chinese. Just, wow. You're the best. 
> 
> Thanks also to **toujours_malfoy** for their ongoing work to translate this into Italian! 
> 
> My infinite gratitude goes out to **youcantsaymylastname** for all her support as I worked on this. Without her, I'd never have made it to the end. She's a wonderful person. 
> 
> Additional thanks to all of you who read the first story and encouraged me to write a sequel. When I saw Mycroft on that treadmill in The Sign of Three, I knew I needed to do it!

Only fifteen minutes ago, Greg hadn’t known the identity of his mysterious observer.

Now he was kissing him in the back of a limo.

It wasn’t as if Mycroft was a _complete_ stranger—after all, they’d been spying on each other for days, and Mycroft _was_ Sherlock’s brother. They were practically old friends—well, not really—but it made Greg feel better about the fact that he was feeling him up in the back of a car. And having an amazing snog that made him feel like he was twenty again.

When his phone rang, he ignored it.

Then Mycroft’s phone rang.

Mycroft’s shoulders stiffened and he pulled away with an irritated sigh. Rolling his eyes, he answered the phone. “Nothing short of a punctured lung is reason enough to disturb me at the moment, Sherlock. Explain yourself and make it quick.”

Greg manoeuvred himself off of Mycroft’s lap and onto the cushy leather of the car seat. He couldn’t make out what Sherlock was saying, but Mycroft’s response was clear enough.

“I’m sure you do, but my personal life is none of your concern, _brother dear_. Goodbye.” He ended the call and set his phone to silent. “I’m so sorry, Gregory. It would seem he’s a little insecure about this—” he grasped for a word, “—development.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, I’ll bet he is. It worked though, didn’t it? Killing the mood with a phone call?” No one ever called him Gregory but he wasn’t about to mention it. Honestly didn’t care.

Mycroft smiled ruefully. “It did rather put a damper on things.”

“All the more reason to ignore the interruption,” Greg said as he leaned over to kiss Mycroft again—and, while it started out a little less passionately, it didn’t stay that way for very long. When they broke apart—this time of their own volition—both of them _looked_ like they’d been snogging in the back seat of a car like a couple of teenagers.

“That was—” Mycroft said, trailing off into a chuckle.

“Yeah.” Greg beamed. “Haven’t had that sort of fun in years. Thanks.”

“Am I forgiven for spying on you?”

Greg paused for a moment in mock contemplation. “Yeah. I think you are.”

“Does that mean you’ll take me up on that date?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Will you wear your running tights?”

Greg squinted at him suspiciously.

“I was joking,” Mycroft added quickly.

“That’s too bad—I was about to agree.”

Mycroft grinned. “I have to work late for the next few nights, but we could meet for coffee. Early, I mean—instead of your run. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“No—no, that’d be great. Um, tomorrow?” Greg said, immediately kicking himself for sounding too eager.

“Perfect.”

“There’s a Starbucks near my flat, next to the Holland Park tube station. I’m not sure what else is open that time of morning. Would that work?”

“That sounds lovely.”

“We’re not very good at this, are we? You know, the nonchalant flirting bit.”

“Not really,” Mycroft said, smiling. “But I’m all right with that if you are.”

The car pulled up outside his office, and Greg, for once, wished the traffic had been worse. “I know I’m not supposed to sound too eager, but this is brilliant,” he said with a huge grin.

“It is,” Mycroft said, looking equally giddy.

He picked up his briefcase, unsure if a kiss was appropriate. Mycroft solved the dilemma for him by leaning over and giving him a quick, chaste peck on the lips. “Tomorrow then?” Greg asked, beaming.

“Looking forward to it. Half past six?”

“Oh, right.” In his excitement, he’d forgotten to set a time. _Probably thinks I’m an idiot._ “Yeah, that sounds great. See you then,” he said, and gave Mycroft a smile he hoped came across as ‘very enthusiastic’ but not ‘creepy’.

Back in the office, he tried to concentrate on the paperwork from the sword-swallowing case—the one Sally had given the unfortunate nickname of “Deep Throat”. The name had spread around the office like wildfire, as had the news that Greg had left the crime scene with Sherlock’s brother in a black limo. He told everyone that Mycroft was collaborating on the case, which was _technically_ true. The statement had been met with barely-repressed smirks and muttered replies of, ‘Yeah, right.’

His head was too far in the clouds for him to care. The initial irritation he’d felt at Mycroft’s surveillance had evaporated as they’d talked. And kissed. And dear God—he didn’t remember the last time he’d got an erection from being around someone. To say he was distracted was an understatement.

Sally walked into his office around lunchtime. “You get a date, then?”

Greg stared intently at his paperwork. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He hoped he wasn’t blushing—it felt like he was.

“Oh, come on, it’s not like I’ll say anything. I can’t believe there are two of them, though. Jesus. Is he as psychotic as Sherlock?”

He felt a surge of annoyance and gave her a withering look. “You expect answers with a comment like that? I’ve got work to do.”

“Ooh, defensive,” she replied playfully. “Guess you got a date.”

“Piss off, and close the door on your way out.”

Eighteen hours until his date, and suddenly he was nervous as hell. What had he been thinking, suggesting a Starbucks?

* * *

The coffee shop was a few minutes’ walk from Greg’s flat. Needlessly hurrying through the early morning darkness, he wondered how Mycroft would get there. He didn’t expect him to take the tube, more likely his limo or a taxi. Perhaps a private helicopter or something—if the local roads had been shut down, it wouldn’t have surprised him.

He arrived far too early, waited outside for ten minutes, and then paced inside for another ten until the barista told him to “Sit down for Christ’s sake.” As soon as he saw Mycroft at the door, he leapt out of the chair and went to meet him. He glanced at the clock on the wall—precisely on time, down to the minute. Somehow he wasn’t surprised.

Despite his earlier speculation, Mycroft’s arrival was astonishingly low-key. He’d walked. In the dark. It wasn’t a short walk either—about two miles, if he remembered correctly.

The exertion in the cold, wet morning air lent Mycroft a rosy glow. He smiled warmly at Greg as he unwrapped his _(probably obscenely expensive)_ scarf and shed his leather gloves. He had his umbrella too, even though there was no rain in the forecast. Strange, that; he’d had it at the crime scene as well.

“Good morning, Gregory.”

 _Oh no. Should I say something? He’s going to find out sometime, and then it’ll be even worse._ “Greg, actually—no one calls me Gregory, not even my mum.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” He looked mortified, as if he should have known.

“No worries. I was never much of a ‘Gregory’. It’s the sort of name that got you a bloody nose at school.”

Mycroft gave him a wry grin. “I’m intimately familiar with that problem.”

Greg chuckled before he caught himself. “Oh, sorry; I know that’s not funny.”

“That’s quite all right. My parents had rather eccentric tastes when it came to names.”

“You never shortened yours, though.”

“I don’t think I could have functioned in the world as a ‘Mike’.”

Greg scanned his elegant overcoat. No doubt an equally elegant suit lay beneath it. “No, I agree. ‘Mycroft’ is definitely more you.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch, and Greg wanted to kick himself for saying something that could have been taken as an insult. “In a good way,” he added hastily. “Um, get some coffee shall we?” he said, wanting to change the subject before he stuck his foot in his mouth even more dramatically.

“I’d love to,” Mycroft replied, giving Greg the same lovely smile he’d seen in the car the previous day.

Mycroft was a study in serenity and grace, but Greg was a tangled bundle of nerves. He’d never noticed the din of conversations and espresso machines before. He’d never tried to have a conversation with anyone while the milk steamer hissed in the background and the baristas barked coffee orders at each other. He ordered his usual (’venti filter, room for milk’) while Mycroft scoured the menu on the wall behind the counter.

While Mycroft wasn’t looking, Jill—his regular barista—gave him a knowing smile. He opened his eyes wider and gave her the universal look of ‘For God’s sake, not now.’”

“And what can I get for you?” she asked Mycroft.

“What sort of tea do you have?”

“Black, green, herbal—”

“No, I mean what varietal is your black tea?”

Greg cringed. _We definitely shouldn’t have come here._

“Oh, um… English Breakfast, I think,” Jill said.

“That sounds fine, thank you.”

“What size?”

“Small.”

“We have Tall, Grande, or Venti.”

Mycroft blinked and looked at her with something approaching horror.

“I’ll have a Tall,” he said.

“—with room for milk,” Greg added. “Take-away.” The din was unbearable, and although Mycroft seemed unruffled, Greg wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.

“Aren’t we staying?”

“We can if you want to, but I thought it might be a bit loud.”

“No, it’s not exactly conducive to conversation, is it?”

“Not exactly. Sorry—I only ever come here by myself and I never thought about it.” They got their drinks and went to the small counter to add milk and sugar.

“How did you know I took milk?”

“I saw it on the tea tray through your window one morning. It’s my job to take in details.”

“Mm,” Mycroft said, looking pleased. “Anything else you figured out?”

“You’re compulsively on time, your dressing gown probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and that tea will be the most disgusting thing you’ve ever tasted.”

Mycroft eyed his paper cup suspiciously. “I can’t speak for the last item yet, but I suspect you’re right on all counts—not that it reflects on you, of course.”

“Thanks,” Greg said, meaning it. “This was an awful idea. Sorry.”

“Not at all. I’m thrilled you invited me.” He started to put the plastic lid on his cup, but it was a tight fit and clearly something with which he had no experience. He was about to force it—and no doubt get tea everywhere—when Greg stepped in.

“Here, let me—those things are evil. The number of times I’ve covered myself in coffee trying to put one on…”

Mycroft smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

Greg felt almost chivalrous, averting a potential beverage disaster like that. As if the rest of this date hadn’t been a disaster already. Was it a date? He wasn’t sure. Didn’t it have to last longer than ten minutes to count as a date? The noise, the people—what had he been thinking, choosing a Starbucks? Mycroft had probably never even set foot in one before. Probably never would again.

They walked back out into the damp morning chill—still dark, save for the streetlights.

“Would you mind?” Mycroft said, holding out his umbrella and cup for Greg to hold.

“Sure.”

Mycroft put his scarf and gloves back on, making the mundane procedure look somehow elegant. Greg couldn’t stop looking at Mycroft’s hands—in those soft leather gloves, his long fingers looked practically obscene. He didn’t even know he had a _thing_ for hands. When Mycroft took his umbrella and tea back, Greg felt like he’d been caught staring at something particularly naughty. He did up his own coat, trying not to focus on how stunning Mycroft looked. If only they’d gone somewhere where they could actually have a conversation…

“Well then. Um. Thanks for coming,” Greg said, not sure of what else to say. “Perhaps we can do something a bit less awful next time.”

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, Gregory—”

“Greg.”

“—I’m so sorry. Greg. It’s been a while since I went on a date, but I get the impression that you think it’s over.”

“Um, the date?” Greg said, hoping he wasn’t referring to all future interactions.

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s not much to do this time of morning,” Greg said as he glanced down the nearly-empty road, filled with dark shop fronts.

“I have some time before I’m expected at work. We could always—” Mycroft paused, looking a little nervous, “—walk to my flat. I’d enjoy the chance to talk. My driver could drop you off at work when he takes me in; I believe your office is near mine.”

Mycroft was giving him a second chance, but Greg’s joy was quickly replaced by disappointment. “I don’t have my briefcase with me—it’s at my flat.” His messy, low-rent flat with last night’s dishes still piled in the sink. The thought of letting Mycroft see it made him cringe.

“Don’t worry. I’ll stay here while you get it.”

“Sorry, it’s just…”

“—you weren’t expecting visitors. I understand completely,” he said, smiling warmly.

“Um, you really don’t mind waiting? I’ll only be five minutes.”

“Of course not, I’d be happy to.”

“Thanks.” He hurried off towards his flat, grateful he didn’t have to expose Mycroft to the horrors of yesterday’s dishes and his freezer that made the unaccountable ‘whooshing’ noises.

* * *

Mycroft stood outside the coffee shop and waited for Greg, nursing the second worst cup of tea in existence. He’d been wrong when he’d agreed with Greg about how bad it would be—Sherlock’s tea was worse by far. At least this paper cup was free from unknown chemicals, which perhaps explained why Sherlock’s was always so horrible.

He mentally ticked off the things he’d done wrong: the mortifying mistake with Greg’s name, the awkwardness with the barista, the near-disaster with the lid, and the inappropriately-mentioned deduction about the state of his flat. It was a small miracle Greg was still speaking to him, let alone agreeing to walk back with him. He should have suggested a taxi; it had taken ages to walk over here.

He blew on his tea through the little hole in the plastic lid and wondered how normal people did this ‘informal social interaction’ thing. It was much easier when diplomatic protocol was involved. He wasn’t used to being incompetent at anything.

Precisely four minutes later, Greg returned with his briefcase. Mycroft had mentally calculated his return time based on the location of his flat—it should have taken at least five. Not that he’d looked up the location of his flat or anything…

“You didn’t have to hurry.”

“I didn’t want you to get cold,” Greg said.

Mycroft felt his cheeks flush and hoped he’d chalk it up to the early morning chill. “Thank you,” he said, looking intently at his cup as if it held the secret to world peace. “My flat’s this way.”

“I remember.”

“Oh, of course you do. Sorry.” He felt completely out of his depth in this conversation. Stating obvious facts: another thing to add to his list of mistakes. He gave Greg a pained smile—a small glimpse at the crack in his social armour—and decided he should broach the subject head-on. “I’m not very good at this. I don’t get out a lot.”

Greg gave him a soft smile. “It’s all right. This isn’t some sort of a test—I’m not keeping score or anything. C’mon, let’s get going.”

* * *

Greg didn’t get out much either, but this was by far the most awkward date he’d ever had. Mycroft looked like he’d be more comfortable on a pub crawl.

“So, um,” Greg said, desperate to break the silence, “did Sherlock phone you back?” On second thought, probably not the best choice of subject.

Mycroft laughed and seemed to lose some of his tension. “He really can be annoying, can’t he? He told me to stop interfering with his life.”

“ _His_ life?” Greg said, stunned. “How is any of this about him?”

“He’s afraid I might try and dissuade you from giving him cases.”

“Why?”

“I honestly have no idea, but I assured him I wouldn’t interfere with his life any more than I do already.”

“Which is ‘quite a bit’ then, huh?” he said with a chuckle.

Mycroft smiled. “I try and keep it to a minimum, but I fear for his safety.”

Worried about where the topic would lead them, Greg tried to steer the conversation elsewhere. “So how long have you had the house in Kensington?”

“About ten years now. I used to have a little place up near Hampstead Heath, but when I started spending so much time at work, I needed somewhere closer.”

Greg barely managed not to choke on his coffee. He couldn’t even imagine how much a ‘little place’ up there would run. Sally had been right about the whole ‘posh’ thing—between that and the Kensington flat, he had to be Old Money. “Oh, that sounds nice,” he said, trying to be nonchalant about it.

He shrugged. “It belonged to my parents. How long have you been living here?”

“A couple years. I moved when I got the DI job. Much nicer than the dump I had in Brixton,” he said, wincing.

Mycroft arched his brows. “I can imagine. Well, I’m certainly glad you moved—I’m sure a running route from Brixton wouldn’t have taken you past my window in the mornings.”

Greg grinned.

“How long have you been running?”

“Most of my life, on and off. I took it up again when I hit middle age; can’t just sit behind a desk all day.”

“Really? It seems like you’re out in the field a lot.”

“Well, there’s a lot more paperwork with the DI job. Sort of a pain really, but it pays well. The running keeps the stress level down, although I’m sure you know all about stress, being an _ex-spy_ and all.” He raised one eyebrow provocatively.

Mycroft shrugged. “The stress level was about the same as it is now, but the field work kept me in better shape.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“There was an ‘incident’ a few years back, and it rather put me off the whole thing. The administrative work is much more my speed these days unfortunately.”

Greg had images of Mycroft running around like James Bond, luring unsuspecting agents into his bed. It was distracting. “What do you do about the stress?” he said, grasping for the thread of conversation as he willed his mind back to the present.

“Nothing. Let it eat away at me, I suppose,” he said wistfully.

“Well, that’s completely depressing,” Greg said before he could stop himself. “Oh, God. Sorry. I shouldn’t—”

Mycroft interrupted him. “No, that’s quite all right. It’s true—I need to start doing something about it before it kills me.”

Greg wondered if this date could get any more awkward. Perhaps he should bring up religion and politics as well. “I meant what I said yesterday. I’ll teach you how to run.”

“Oh, I’m really in no shape these days. It’d be a disaster.”

“Do you have bad knees?”

Mycroft shook his head.

“Then you’ll be fine—anyone can do it if they start slow. It’s the ones who try and go nuts in the first week that have problems.” He gave Mycroft a quick glance up and down. “You’ve got a good build for it, too,” he said, with a bit of innuendo in his voice and a cheeky look.

It was hard to tell, but Mycroft might have blushed. Perhaps it was just the cold. Still, he knew exactly what he was doing, and he was going to salvage this date if it killed him.

* * *

Mycroft was quite sure Greg would never want to see him again—even in a professional capacity, let alone on another date—but when he made the comment about his ‘build’, it felt like the world glowed around the edges. Greg was flirting with him. He was sure of it.

Well, fairly sure.

No: he was going with ‘sure’.

It was time to stop being miserable, and alone, and terrified of emotional interaction. For whatever reason, Greg seemed interested in him and had offered to teach him how to run. That meant more dates. More time spent in the company of this lovely man.

He’d be an idiot if he didn’t take him up on it. And if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was an idiot.

“All right, but like I said, I’m in abysmal shape. It’ll take me a while.”

“I’ve got time,” Greg said, giving him a smile that should have been illegal. 

* * *

They managed to get to Mycroft’s flat without the discussion taking any other disastrous turns: dead bodies, international voting scandals, or anything remotely related to Sherlock.

Greg rubbed his hands together briskly, wishing he’d remembered his gloves. The fact that he’d made it this far without noticing his hands were cold was a testament to his interest in Mycroft.

“Oh, sorry. I should have realised—” Mycroft said when he noticed.

“Don’t apologise. Maybe I could warm them up with some tea?” he said hopefully. He could think of some other ways he’d like to warm them up—none of them suitable for discussion at the moment.

“I didn’t think you drank tea.”

“Not usually,” Greg said, “but you don’t drink coffee.”

“No, but Sherlock does. I have a coffeemaker that only sees use when he deigns to visit.” He smiled and reached for Greg’s coat. “Which isn’t very often, I’ll admit. The kitchen’s upstairs.”

Greg should have known the ‘coffeemaker’ wouldn’t be some tacky plastic thing. It was a full-on espresso machine—a smaller version of the one they had at Starbucks. He never even bought espresso because it cost twice as much as filter.

“Straight coffee or would you like a latte or something?”

“You know how to use this thing? I thought that required years of training.” He was only half-joking.

“It’d be silly to own it and not know how to use it, don’t you think? Besides, it gives me a fine fall-back career as a barista.”

“Yeah… you, as a barista. That’d be interesting.”

“Mm. I’d be fine as long as there weren’t any customers,” Mycroft said, cheerfully opening a cabinet to get the coffee beans.

“Okay, well I’ll have a latte if you don’t mind making it. I only get the filter because it’s what I’m used to at work.” It was sort of true.

The next five minutes were a blur as Mycroft orchestrated the creation of both the perfect latte and a pot of loose-leafed tea. He got out a china teacup for himself and paused. “Mug or cup?”

“A mug would be great, thanks.” Then, suddenly worried it would sound like he was criticising Mycroft’s choice of a teacup, he added, “So I can wrap my hands around it.” _First date nerves_ , he told himself. _And stop being an idiot—he doesn’t care what you drink it in._

Mycroft produced a tall, bone-china mug which somehow managed to be both sturdy-looking and elegant at the same time. He poured the espresso and steamed milk into it, leaving a delicate swirled pattern in the foam. He pushed a small, covered china bowl towards Greg—“I only have lumps, I’m afraid.”—before handing him the latte and a spoon.

Greg stared at him for a second, dumbfounded by his expertise, then took a sip. It was as if his mouth had reached some sort of coffee nirvana. “My God, this is incredible,” he said. “You have no idea.”

Mycroft beamed.

“I’m serious. I’ve never had coffee this good.”

“That’s reassuring. Sherlock’s reaction was far less favourable.”

“What’d he say?”

“I believe the word he used was ‘Meh.’”

Greg snorted. “You know how he is.”

“I do. If he’d said anything nice, I would have feared for his sanity.”

“It’s good to know you have a sense of humour about it.”

“I grew up with him; I didn’t have much choice,” Mycroft said with a shrug. “Would you like anything to eat?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” he said, holding up his mug. “You having anything?”

“No, I made some eggs earlier.”

“Jesus,” Greg said, “What time did you get up this morning? Between breakfast and that walk, it had to be at least half four.”

Mycroft smiled. “Normally I just read the newspaper, so it didn’t change anything.”

Greg felt a bit guilty—he’d slept in until half five. “Why’d you walk, though? It was freezing.”

Mycroft took a sudden, intense interest in his cup of tea and pressed his lips together. After a second he said, “I thought I could use the exercise. You know—on the off chance that this morning wasn’t a complete disaster and you were serious about the running thing.”

“Do you hate coffee, or do you just prefer tea?”

Mycroft looked up, seeming confused by the sudden change in topic. “Sorry?”

“Because I’d like to kiss you for that, but if you don’t like coffee it’d probably be a bit nasty.”

Mycroft’s face lit up. “I _love_ coffee.”


	2. Chapter 2

They arranged to meet on Saturday morning to go to a speciality running shop near Greg’s office.

Mycroft—despite all his bespoke suits—needed clothes. And trainers. Greg secretly hoped the shoes would have some sort of fluorescent stripe—they might help Mycroft take himself less seriously. But getting him to go to a proper running shop had taken effort.

“Can’t we go to Harrods or something? I’m sure they’ll have what we need.”

“I’m sure they won’t,” Greg said, brooking no argument. “Anyway, even if they did have good running shoes, the chances of getting someone to do a proper fit are almost nil, and without the right shoes, this isn’t going to work.”

Mycroft frowned and mumbled something about ‘lack of privacy’.

“Be glad I’m not taking you to the big Adidas shop on Oxford Street—that place is teeming with people. You’d hate it.” There was only one way to end the discussion quickly: resort to innuendo and hope for the best. “I promise I’ll make it up to you afterwards.”

Despite Mycroft’s best efforts at petulance, the edges of a grin broke through. “If you insist,” he said, with a half-hearted eye-roll that managed to be completely endearing.

Greg beamed at him. “Trust me.”

* * *

He showed up at Mycroft’s at nine. He’d entertained hopes for a quick snog before they left, but Mycroft seemed terrified by the prospect of the day ahead. He was wearing a shirt and suit jacket that put Greg’s work clothes to shame—he’d stick out like a sore thumb at the running shop.

“Do you have anything… better to run in?”

“Why? We’re just going to buy shoes.”

“Well, they usually have you try them out on the treadmill. Perhaps you could wear a more comfortable shirt?” The trousers, at least, were pressed cotton slacks. Not running tights, but they’d be better than jeans. Did Mycroft even own jeans? The thought made his brain hurt. In a good way. He’d have to remember to ask.

They dug around in his wardrobe and eventually found a more appropriate ‘polo’ shirt. The open buttons gave Greg a tantalising view of some light auburn chest hair.

Mycroft glanced down at the shirt nervously. “Are you sure about this? I think the other shirt was better.”

“Oh, definitely. Trust me. You look fantastic in that,” Greg said, trying not to sound lecherous. “But if you’re going to get some running clothes, you’ll have to try them on at the shop—you know that, right?”

“No,” Mycroft said, his voice slightly panicky. “I’ll order them online or something. If I’m going to be humiliated, I want it to be done in private.”

His reaction caught Greg off-guard. “Oh, God, I’m sorry—this isn’t meant to be some sort of torture. You don’t have to get the ridiculous tights I wear, you know—they have some perfectly good loose ones, and the shirts aren’t that bad.” He felt awful for dragging Mycroft into a situation he was clearly dreading. “Why don’t we just get the shoes and buy the other stuff to bring back. You can try on the clothes here and return whatever you don’t like.”

“All right,” Mycroft said, relaxing a bit, “I suppose that’ll be fine.”

Greg relaxed a little as well. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin Mycroft’s day, although he privately hoped Mycroft would come around to the tights idea. He felt like he’d memorised every inch of Mycroft’s legs during the ‘pat-down’ in his car, and they’d look amazing in lycra—but that probably wasn’t what he needed to hear right now.

They took a taxi to the shop—a trip Greg would normally have made by tube, but Mycroft seemed stressed enough without subjecting him to mass transportation.

When they walked in, Mycroft stared at the walls of shoes in disbelief. He leaned in towards Greg. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many shoes in one place,” he said, under his breath, “and certainly not in those colours.”

A young woman came over to assist them, and Greg explained what type of shoe they needed. She watched Mycroft walk in bare feet, then brought him a selection to try on. After they dismissed a few of the choices, she suggested that he try each pair out on their treadmill. He glanced at Greg to see what he thought.

“Sure,” Greg said, “just stop if you get tired or anything hurts.” He was glad the shop assistant was good. It had been ages since he’d bought his last pair, and seeing the expert help Mycroft was getting, he was starting to think he might be better off with some new ones of his own.

While Mycroft jogged on the treadmill, Greg browsed their selection of running gear. He chose a new shirt and a pair of tights for himself—he needed a second pair, and he hadn’t had the time to get them. When Mycroft finished—breathing hard, with a sheen of perspiration and his normally well-behaved hair slightly tousled—all Greg could think was, ‘Fuck, that’s hot.’ He hoped his reaction wasn’t obvious. “So, how were they?”

“Well,” he said in between breaths, “the first pair is definitely out—they rubbed in two different places on my right foot, but the other pair felt great.”

“Yeah,” the shop assistant chimed in, “he’s got really good form, too. He’s a natural at this.”

Mycroft shot him a grin. “Imagine what I’ll be like with lessons.”

“Unstoppable, no doubt,” he said, returning the smile. To his relief, the shoes Mycroft had settled on were black with white stripes—definitely not fluorescent. He’d been feeling guilty about that all morning, as soon as he’d realised how difficult this was for him. But Mycroft’s earlier nervousness had been replaced with a giddy self-confidence, and Greg marvelled at the transformation. He got the impression that Mycroft wasn’t running everything through his internal filter right now—the one that kept him removed and safe from the world at large.

After he changed out of the shoes, they browsed the shop for clothes.

“Which tights do you wear?”

“These,” Greg said, handing over the ones he’d picked out earlier.

“Hm. And they’re comfortable?”

“Extremely.” He hoped this was going where he thought it was. Or at least in the ‘tighter than sweatpants’ direction.

“You know, I can’t say I enjoyed running in slacks just now—it seems like chafing would be an issue.”

Greg glanced at him before he laughed, just to make sure Mycroft wasn’t being serious. He appreciated a dry sense of humour, but he didn’t know him well enough yet to be positive he was joking.

“I’m definitely going to need something more appropriate,” Mycroft continued, holding them up for inspection. “I’m going to try these on,” he said and marched off in the direction of the changing rooms.

Greg stood there, gob-smacked by Mycroft’s change of heart about lack of privacy and public humiliation. Then, coming to his senses, he followed him at a cautious distance— _just in case he wants to ‘see if they fit’ or something_ , he thought optimistically. Mycroft went into one of the changing rooms; Greg hovered by the entrance. After a few minutes, one of the doors opened a crack and Mycroft cautiously poked his head around the door.

“Greg?”

“Hm?”

“I’m not sure if these fit or not. Would you, um… well, would you mind taking a look?”

There were _so_ many responses to that—none of which were appropriate. He bit back a grin and said, “’Course not.”

He shuffled into the changing room. When he laid eyes on him… _fuck._ To say they fit him was an understatement—they highlighted every gloriously toned curve he hid under his suits. His mouth went dry and he swallowed; it seemed awfully warm.

“What do you think? Too tight?”

“Um… no. Just right.” He took a breath and forced himself to look at Mycroft’s face. “They look great.” He tried to look objective, but all he really wanted to do was stare. It was like the moment he’d seen his first porn magazine as a teenager—exciting, thrilling, and dirty. _I have to get a grip on myself_.

“Are you absolutely sure?” Mycroft said. “I wouldn’t want to have to bring them back.” His voice was all innocence, but the smile on his face wasn’t.

Greg spared another quick glance downward. The tights seemed to be—well— _filling out_ somewhat.

 _Oh. Well then._ “Perhaps I should take a better look; it’d be a shame to make two trips.” He stepped closer and crouched in front of him, running his hands up and down his calves at first. “The length is good. You tall blokes are lucky; they’re always a bit too long for me.” Then he moved higher, stroking the outside of his thigh, deliberately avoiding his crotch. He planned to drag this out. “You have runner’s thighs,” he said, standing up a bit. “You’re definitely going to be good at this.” He let his hand slowly follow the curve of his arse; Mycroft’s breath caught, and Greg felt his muscles tense beneath the lycra. He squeezed gently. “No discomfort when I do that?”

“None,” Mycroft said, sounding strained.

Greg felt dizzy. It was definitely too warm in here. He took one step closer and moved his hand to Mycroft’s crotch—his erection was obvious now, and Greg could almost make out the line of his cock as he pressed his hand against it. He let out a small moan and Greg had to force himself to breathe. Mycroft looked wrecked, and they hadn’t even done anything. He rubbed his palm along the bulge again, and Mycroft’s hips canted forwards, pushing into his touch.

“Are… are you sure they’re not binding at all in the front?” Greg asked, barely able to keep his voice level. “We might have to—you know, rearrange things a bit.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“Tease,” Mycroft said, daring him to do something about it.

Greg couldn’t hold back any longer—he pinned him against the wall and kissed him. Mycroft pulled Greg closer and moaned. When they separated, Greg realised his hand was still on Mycroft’s cock. “It’s only teasing if I don’t do something about it,” he said, giving him another firm rub. He dropped to his knees, intending to make good on his promise.

There was a knock on the door of the changing room. “Do you need any different sizes?”

Greg and Mycroft froze and looked at one another in terror, eyes as wide as saucers. There was a gap below the doors—Greg desperately hoped she hadn’t looked hard enough to see two pairs of legs, or, more accurately, one pair of legs and him on his knees. He stood up, very slowly and quietly.

“No, thank you. I think these will be fine,” Mycroft said, somehow recovering enough to sound like someone who _wasn’t_ about to get a blow-job in a changing room.

“All right. Just let me know.”

They both held their breath until she’d gone, and then Greg started shaking with uncontrollable, silent laughter. “I’m so sorry,” he mouthed silently as he tried to regain his composure, but instead of being upset, Mycroft seemed as giddy as Greg about their near-miss. “Um, would it be all right if I made good on that later?” Greg whispered.

“I think that would be for the best,” Mycroft whispered back, still trying not to laugh.

“All right. I’ll leave first. Give me a couple minutes before you follow. Since I have my own stuff, it shouldn’t look too bad unless they see us walking out of the same room.”

Mycroft nodded.

“You should definitely get those, though,” Greg added, holding back a giggle. “They fit great.”

Their escape and checkout went off without a hitch, and once they’d made it a respectable distance away from the shop, they both burst into fits of laughter.

“Oh my God,” Greg said, “I can’t believe we got away with that! I thought we were screwed.”

“I haven’t been that terrified about getting caught since I used a fake ID to go clubbing.”

“You what…?”

“I had a wild youth,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, it sounds like you were a _total_ delinquent.”

Mycroft shrugged it off with a grin. “Sherlock hadn’t gone before me to set the standard. When he came along, leaving burning classrooms in his wake, I think my parents realised how fortunate they’d been with me.”

“Still, a fake ID? That’s the only time you were worried about getting caught?”

“I _was_ breaking the law—it felt terribly naughty at the time.”

“I’ll make you feel terribly naughty whenever you want,” Greg replied salaciously, then winced at how corny it sounded. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Mycroft said with a bit of a giggle, “it sounds like great fun. Do you want to get some lunch?”

“Yeah, I’d love to. Do you, um, have anything going on this afternoon?”

“No, you?”

Greg would have cancelled tea with the Queen if it meant he could spend the afternoon with Mycroft. (Although realistically, Mycroft was far more likely to have plans with her than he was.) “Nothing until work on Monday,” he said without thinking.

“Oh, _really?”_ Mycroft replied with a smirk.

Greg had meant it in all innocence. He really had. Wincing again, he said, “I’ll just shut up now, before I get myself into any more trouble.”

“You did rather drop yourself into that one,” Mycroft said, hailing a taxi. “I could make us some lunch back at my flat, if you’d like.”

“You sure?”

“We could skip lunch and get directly to the sex, if you’d prefer, but I think we’ll need to keep our strength up if you’re staying all weekend,” he said dryly.

Greg hadn’t seen that coming, and he didn’t have a clue what to say in response—even if it had been a joke.

“Ah, that shut you up, didn’t it?” he said, holding the door open as Greg got into the taxi. “Would you really have done that at the shop?”

“Yeah.” It made him wonder about his own judgement—this was only their second date and he was initiating sex in public. It didn’t speak to a lot of restraint on his part. “Sorry if it was completely out of line,” he added. “It’s been ages since I went out with anyone, and I might have got a bit carried away.”

“I wasn’t complaining,” Mycroft said, and gave the cabbie his address.

* * *

The ride to his flat was a bit awkward. It was hard to know what to say when you’d just nearly had sex with someone you barely knew. Mycroft supposed it would be more awkward if they’d actually _had_ sex. He wanted to talk about this… _relationship?_ What it was, wasn’t, could be—but the back of a taxi wasn’t the place to do it. He smiled warmly and rested his hand on Greg’s thigh as they rode in silence. He didn’t want him thinking he’d regretted the entire thing.

When they got to the flat, he still wasn’t sure how to broach the subject, so he focused on making them some food. “Hot lunch or cold?”

“Either’s fine, thanks.”

“Do you like roast beef? I cooked a roast a couple of days ago, and I could make sandwiches—I have fresh bread. Or if you don’t mind waiting, I could cook properly—perhaps some pasta?”

“Sandwiches sound great, thanks. I haven’t had proper roast beef in ages. Mine comes out of small plastic packets from the shop, I’m afraid,” he said, looking sheepish. “I’m not much of a cook.”

“I’ll have to make you a proper roast dinner sometime. It’s not much fun just doing it for myself.”

“I think it’s great that you like to cook—I eat far too much take-away. I think the running is the only reason it hasn’t killed me yet.”

Mycroft smiled sympathetically. “It gives me something to do when I get home. Do you want some coffee?”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll make it if you want. Oh… actually, I have no idea how to work that thing.”

“I’ll show you if you’d like.”

“Perhaps after lunch. It’d probably take half the afternoon, and I’d end up with steam burns or something.”

They were both sidestepping any sort of meaningful conversation. When they finally finished their lunch, Greg brought it up first. 

“So,” he started, sounding nervous, “I’m sorry about earlier—I probably shouldn’t have done that. I mean, I wouldn’t normally. It was just—”

“You seem to be forgetting that I dragged you in there and came on to you. If anything, I should be the one apologising. It’s been years since I’ve been with anyone, and I’m not sure how to walk the line between ‘showing interest’ and ‘having you run screaming’. I have no idea at what rate relationships are supposed to progress these days.”

“Me either,” Greg mumbled.

“I’m thrilled that you’re interested; I don’t want to ruin things before they’ve even started.”

Greg seemed visibly relieved. “Yeah, well that makes two of us. To be honest, once I hit forty I didn’t think I’d be dating anymore and I sort of lost track. Sally’s always trying to set me up, but with my job… well, it just doesn’t seem like most blokes would understand. And dating someone from work is asking for trouble.”

“Work is definitely problematic,” said Mycroft. Then he added, “I think as long as we’re both clear on what anything physical does or doesn’t mean, it’s not a problem.”

“Well, I hadn’t _planned_ on asking you to marry me after I’d felt you up at the running shop, but I’m not completely against the idea.”

Mycroft laughed as Greg’s joke lifted the tension a bit. “Well, I’d like to spend more time getting to know you—”

Greg’s expression fell, just a little.

“—but I don’t see why that should rule out a little fun. Or a lot of fun. We’re both consenting adults, after all.”

Greg beamed. “No argument with that.”

“You promise you won’t think less of me in the morning?” Mycroft asked. He tried to make it seem lighthearted, but it was important to him that any sex wouldn’t damage their potential relationship.

“Promise,” Greg replied, seriously. “You?”

Mycroft felt genuinely giddy. “Promise.”

They both sat in silence for a few seconds, getting their bearings again. Then Greg smiled and said, “Well, that was intense. Glad we got that out of the way, huh?”

“Indeed. Would you like that cup of coffee now?”

“I was thinking perhaps a tour of your flat…”

“Hm. I have some lovely bedroom furniture you might be interested in seeing.”

* * *

Greg breathed a mental sigh of relief that they’d cleared up the whole ‘what sex means’ thing. After the adrenaline rush of nearly getting caught had worn off, the ride back in the taxi had been awkward. He’d even started to wonder if Mycroft was regretting the whole thing and merely being polite, but his comment about bedroom furniture left no room for doubt.

It had been so long since he’d dated—or even had sex, for that matter. It wasn’t like he’d forgotten _how_ , but he didn’t want to come off as _boring_. He’d suggested the ‘tour’, but the idea of going to his bedroom specifically to get undressed and then have sex seemed so… dull. The very opposite of a seduction.

When Mycroft got up and took their plates to the kitchen, Greg followed. After he’d put their plates on the counter, Greg was right there behind him, waiting with a quirked grin.

“Lunch was delicious, thanks.”

“My pleas—”

Before he could finish, Greg cut him off with a soft kiss. He curled his hand behind Mycroft’s head, pulling him in closer, and felt Mycroft’s long fingers grasp his waist. It started as a slow, leisurely kiss, but as it grew more intense, one of Mycroft’s hands slipped down onto his arse.

“Would you like to see the bedroom?” Mycroft asked.

“No.”

Mycroft frowned, and Greg clarified by leaning in and whispering, “I’d like to see the place where you watched me run.”

“Oh…”

Greg placed a series of soft kisses along his jaw; after a second, Mycroft stretched his head over to the side—whether in pleasure or to give him better access, Greg wasn’t sure. Either way, his gorgeous neck—a lovely expanse of fair, freckled skin—begged for more attention, and who was he to refuse?

A few quiet, strangled moans escaped Mycroft’s lips as he explored. It almost seemed as if he was trying to restrain his emotions.

“Holding back on me, are you?” Greg said. “We can’t have that.” He sucked at the soft skin and Mycroft rewarded him with an unguarded moan. Mycroft pulled him closer and they kissed again.

When they pulled apart, both a bit lightheaded, Mycroft grabbed his hand and guided him towards the stairs. Halfway down, Mycroft stopped. Greg wasn’t expecting it and almost ran into him, but the result was merely a delicious violation of personal space rather than a headfirst tumble.

Mycroft looked him in the eye and gave him a half-smile for a few seconds. Then, in a voice that was lower and sexier than it had any right to be, he said, “You know, that morning when you ran by in slow motion—the first day you wore those tights—I couldn’t even wait until my shower to finish myself off. I stopped right here on the stairs. It only took a few strokes—I was that close already, just from watching you. I came all over my pyjamas.”

The thought of it made Greg’s knees weak, and he crowded Mycroft up against the wall. “Show me,” he said, his voice demanding. “I want to see _exactly_ what you did.”

Mycroft made a small needy sound as he undid his trousers and got them around his ankles. He was about to pull down his boxers when Greg’s hand grasped his wrist and stopped him.

“What were you thinking about when you did it?”

“I wanted to answer the door when you rang the bell—pull you inside and kiss you. Rub my hand over those tights and feel your cock.”

Greg’s mouth had gone dry, and he had to swallow before he could get any words out. A breathy ‘Oh, _fuck_ ,’ was all he could manage, and he let go of his wrist.

Mycroft pulled down his boxers, whimpering a little as the material brushed against his erection.

“Slowly,” Greg said. “Make it last.” He openly stared at Mycroft’s cock as he undid his own trousers. It was thick and delicious-looking, and he desperately wanted it in his mouth, but he resisted the urge to drop to his knees and instead worked his pants down over his own straining erection. Mycroft’s hand slid along his length with familiar ease, hips pushing forward into the pressure as he braced against the wall.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Greg murmured, as he slid one leg between Mycroft’s and moved closer. He kissed him with a fierce intensity, then drew back, reaching down for Mycroft’s cock and pressing it against his own. When he wrapped his hand around them both, Mycroft copied the motion, entwining his fingers with Greg’s as their hands formed a circle. Greg braced his other hand on the wall above Mycroft’s shoulder and grinned. “Now—show me what you did.”

The auburn curls at the base of Mycroft’s cock brushed against his hand as they started to move. Their actions weren’t synchronised, and that just made it even better—they slid against each other as they worked together to bring themselves off. Greg’s awareness condensed down to a singularity: Mycroft. The wrecked expression on his face; the moans escaping his lips as their hands moved more quickly; the sensation of skin against skin. His own pleasure threatened to overtake him, even though he wanted Mycroft to come first. When he rubbed his thumb across their wet, glistening heads, Mycroft’s hips stuttered and he braced against the wall, eyes closed with pleasure. Greg took the opportunity to suck an almost-red mark into his fair skin and did the thing with his thumb again, and that was all it took—Mycroft’s entire body tensed, and thick, hot semen pulsed over their fingers. Knowing there was no reason to hold back now, Greg let his own orgasm crash through him and he started to come even as Mycroft was still shuddering through his release.

They both relaxed into the afterglow—Mycroft slumping against the wall and Greg against him, his head resting on Mycroft’s shoulder. Greg let out a small chuckle. “Fuck, that was good.”

“Wonderful,” Mycroft replied, with a dreamy laziness to his voice that defied his usual control. Greg found it completely endearing.

They both basked in the joy of it for a few minutes until the impracticalities of their awkward position and the sticky mess intruded into their consciousness.

“Ah, right,” Mycroft said, looking around for something to wipe themselves off with and finding nothing. He stepped out of the trousers and boxers around his ankles and handed the boxers to Greg. “Here—use these.”

“You sure?” They were silk and probably cost a fortune.

“I have more upstairs,” Mycroft said, smiling.

They cleaned up, turning his pants into the most expensive tissues in history and then put their trousers back on. Greg smirked and filed away the image of Mycroft ‘going commando’ for future reference.

Mycroft caught him. “What?”

“Nothing.” Greg tried to sound innocent.

He frowned at him, and Greg clarified. “Well, it’s a bit sexy…”

“Oh,” Mycroft said, clearly surprised. Then, in a suggestive tone, he added, “I’ll have to remember that.”


	3. Chapter 3

After their little encounter on the stairs, Mycroft taught him how to use the espresso machine. No one got third degree burns and Greg made himself a decent latte, so he considered it to be a success, even though his attempt at ‘the swirly patterns in the foam’ was a bit disastrous and nothing like Mycroft’s Art Nouveau masterpiece.

“It just takes practice. You can do another if you’d like.”

“Then I’ll be up all night,” Greg said, sipping the coffee that was almost as good as the sex they’d just had.

“Well, it’s always here, so any time you want to, feel free.”

The statement was awfully open-ended. It was reassuring in a ‘I like you enough that I want you around more often’ sort of way. He hoped it wasn’t just for the sex, but if it was, he could certainly live with that. For as awkward as Mycroft had been at Starbucks—and even earlier that morning—once he loosened up, he was lovely to be around. “Thanks,” he said, not sure whether to suggest they do something for the rest of the day or not. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome.

“Why don’t we go into the other room and relax?” Mycroft offered.

Seated in plush chairs in the front room with a plate of biscuits, Mycroft started to look nervous again. “Is this all right? I mean, don’t feel like you have to stay and chat just because we, um…”

“We’re both completely out of our depth here, aren’t we?” Greg said, already knowing it was true. “Here’s the thing: I’m terrible at reading people, and although I know you’re usually brilliant at it, you must not be when you’re nervous or you wouldn’t be asking me these questions.”

Mycroft appeared to be inspecting his biscuit in an attempt to avoid Greg’s gaze.

“So,” Greg continued, before he lost his nerve, “here’s what I suggest: we both just come out and say what’s on our minds, even if it breaks every dating rule on the books. It’ll save us both a lot of time and suffering.” _Just lay it all out there and see what he says. Hope for the best._ “I’ll go first: I really like you, I’d love to spend the afternoon with you, and I’d like to take you out to dinner tonight.”

Mycroft looked up in surprise. “Really? I’d love that. Dinner, I mean. Well, and the suggestion. You’re right—I’m going to spend an awful lot of time second-guessing myself if we don’t.”

 _Well, that’s a relief_ , Greg thought. _I don’t know why everyone doesn’t do this_.

“Do you want to move to the sofa?” Mycroft said. “It might seem less like a job interview if we’re not sitting across from each other.” He paused for a second and then continued, “And to be honest, the physical contact would be comforting at the moment.”

 _Comforting. What an interesting way of putting it._ He was right, though—they’d just shared something incredibly intimate, and now they were back to the formalities of tea and biscuits. It was no wonder they were both so nervous. “Yeah, it would, wouldn’t it?” Leaving his coffee on the table, he sat at the end of the dark leather sofa. Mycroft sat next to him, slouching a little, and Greg took the cue and draped his arm across his shoulders.

Mycroft made a small contented noise and relaxed against him further. “Thanks,” he said. “That was… intense, earlier. I can see why people want to cuddle after sex.”

“Yeah.” Greg rested his head against the plush leather and they sat in silence, just relaxing. It was surprisingly _comfortable_ —both the silence and the closeness. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to _be_ with someone else like this. He shifted to a slightly more comfortable position and gave Mycroft’s shoulders a light squeeze. “This is nice, thanks.”

* * *

Mycroft didn’t know he’d dropped off until he woke up with a crick in his neck. Greg still had his head tipped back and was snoring lightly, but he looked up groggily when Mycroft started to move.

“Oh, God, sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Greg said. He sounded mortified.

Mycroft squeezed his thigh reassuringly. “It’s fine—I did too. It probably wasn’t the best position for a nap. Is your neck stiff?”

Greg rubbed the back of it. “Yeah, a bit. It’s okay though.”

“If you sit on the floor, I’ll rub it for you.”

“Really? Sure, thanks.” He chuckled a bit at Mycroft’s unintended innuendo and shifted onto the floor.

“Back in a sec.” He went and got some lotion then sat behind Greg. Giving his hands a good coating, he gently pressed his thumbs on either side of his spine. “All right, now try and relax into it. If it hurts, tell me and I’ll back off.”

“Okay.”

He started working the muscles, kneading them gently and easing away the tightness. “You carry a lot of tension in your neck. Does that hurt?”

“No, that feels… _Jesus_. How’d you learn to do that? It feels amazing.”

“I hurt my leg when I was a teenager, so I studied up on anatomy and learned how to do self-massage.”

“Heh.”

“Not _that_ sort of self-massage—I showed you that earlier.” They both chuckled. “It turned out to be good for headaches as well.”

“Get a lot of those?”

“More than I’d like to admit. It’s the job.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Greg. “Show me how to do it sometime?”

“Of course,” he said, thrilled by the idea of having something to teach him. He worked on Greg’s neck until he could feel that the tension had gone. “Is that better?”

“Yeah, fantastic—thanks.”

Mycroft stood up and helped him to his feet. “I’m afraid I got quite a bit of lotion on your hair. You can have a shower if you’d like—the hot water will be good for your neck.”

“This is just another trick to get me naked, isn’t it?” Greg said with a grin.

“No, I…” Mycroft trailed off, completely flustered. “I won’t watch.”

Greg laughed. “Sorry, I was just teasing—you’re welcome to watch. We could try having shower sex if you want, but I’m afraid one of us would end up breaking something. I dunno, it’s one of those things that seems sexy but would just end up being awkward and dangerous in real life. Like having sex on a plane.”

“You’ve been having sex on the wrong planes.”

* * *

That wasn’t the response Greg had been expecting. He stood there with his mouth open for a few seconds without realising it. “Have you, um—”

“—had sex on a plane?” Mycroft said. “No. I’m merely saying that some planes would be more conducive to it than others.”

Greg squinted at him. “Should I ask why you know this, or would you have to shoot me?”

“Oh God, no—it’s nothing like that,” he said, chuckling. “No, it’s just that private jets have a very discreet staff—you wouldn’t be restricted to the lavatory. At least, I don’t imagine you would. To be clear, I haven’t actually _witnessed_ any sex taking place, but it seems plausible.”

“That’s an awful lot of qualifications you’re tacking on. How many private jets have you been on, anyway?”

“A few. You know, with the job.” Mycroft waved the question away with a flick of his wrist.

Something was off.

It suddenly dawned on him what it was. “You own a jet.”

Mycroft winced. “It’s a very _small_ jet.”

Greg stared at him. How was he even supposed to reply to something like that?

“It’s not really mine,” Mycroft continued, with a pained expression on his face. “It belongs to my family.” He studied his fingernails intently.

“Wait, hang on—why are you apologising for this?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Because most people with private jets are inbred pricks.” Then, doing a spot-on impression of a terribly-posh voice, he looked down his nose and said, “Hello. Would you like to see my private jet? People say I’m awfully out of touch with the common man and I can’t think why.”

Greg burst out laughing and Mycroft gave him a small smile. “You don’t think I’m a prick, then?”

“No… but I’d like to have sex on your plane.”

* * *

_Well, that’s a relief_ , Mycroft thought. Now the money issue was out in the open, and it hadn’t gone as badly as he’d expected. Actually it hadn’t gone badly at all—Greg seemed amused by the whole thing.

“I figured you were pretty well off,” Greg said, gesturing at the flat, “although I wouldn’t have guessed about the plane.”

“They’re overrated. Handy in a pinch and for avoiding the mobs at Heathrow, but I really don’t use it very often.”

“You should.”

“Mm, perhaps you’re right. Not really anywhere to go, though.”

“So, hang on—what’s with Sherlock?”

“What about him?”

“Is it just _your_ money, or does he have it, too?”

“Oh, that,” Mycroft said, smiling. “I presume you’re talking about Baker Street, and the flat-sharing, and the lack of crockery in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, he always makes out like he’s hard up.”

“And yet he wanders around wearing shirts that cost more than your watch.”

Greg frowned and looked at it. “It’s a nice watch.”

He hadn’t meant it to be an insult. “It _is_ a nice watch. My point is, they’re very expensive shirts. He likes to pretend he’s ‘slumming it’ to prove a point to our parents, although I’ve never been quite sure _what_ point, since he freely takes the money for everything else he wants. It’s part of his ‘image’.”

“Does John know?”

“Oh, most assuredly.”

“Huh. Well.” He seemed at a loss. “I suppose that explains a lot.”

“Such as?”

“How they can both run around London full-time and still make rent on a Zone 1 flat.”

“Quite.”

“Lucky bastard.”

Mycroft smiled. “The ironic thing about money is that once you have enough of it, you rarely appreciate it. I mean, look at me: I have the means to do almost anything I want, but I spent most of my hours working and the rest of them alone in this flat.”

“Yeah, well, I could say much the same thing, but your flat is a lot nicer.”

“Point taken. It sounds like we both work too much. Do you have any hobbies besides running?”

“Not unless ‘sitting around the flat’ counts as a hobby. I used to play football, but that was a long time ago. You?”

“Do you count ‘scanning the newspapers for signs of global instability’? Purely to satisfy my intellectual curiosity, mind you,” he added, with a wry smile.

“Oh, of _course_ ,” said Greg, “because if it gets as far as the papers, you probably had a hand in it.”

“Something like that.”

“Well, now you’ll be able to add running to that.”

“I hope so.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll start slow. It’ll be mostly walking at first, with a bit of running.”

“Perhaps we should start today? Go out for a walk?”

Greg glanced out the window. “No, it’s getting dark already. Tomorrow, though? If you can stand me two days in a row.”

 _Well, I’m not going to get another opening like that_. “Does it count as two days if you don’t leave?”

As the surprise registered on Greg’s face, Mycroft quickly added, “Only if you want to, of course. And we don’t have to _do_ anything. It’s just… I don’t mean to come across as desperate, but I’m really enjoying your company and…” he trailed off, shrugging.

Greg beamed. “I’d love to.”

“I _really_ don’t know how normal people do this.”

“They’re in their twenties and have no shame,” Greg replied.

“Right,” Mycroft said with a smile. “Lucky bastards.”

“Would it be… would you mind if I got a shower? Especially if we’re going out to dinner.”

“Of course not. It’s back by the bedroom.”

* * *

“I’ll just leave you to it, then,” Mycroft said awkwardly, after showing him the bathroom and getting him a fresh towel.

“Don’t be silly. We don’t have to do the ‘sex in the shower’ thing, but a little fooling around might be fun. C’mon, aren’t you a little bit intrigued?”

“All right,” Mycroft said, “if you’re going to twist my arm.”

“Only if you ask me to.”

“Sorry?”

“Er, nothing,” Greg said, mentally adding ‘Joking around about S&M’ to his list of ‘Things Not to Discuss on a First Date’. (Second date. _Whatever._ )

As they undressed, placing their clothes on the small table that held the towels, Greg got a better view of Mycroft’s auburn chest hair. His own grey hair made him feel ancient, even though he’d had it since his thirties. “You’re gorgeous,” he said, feeling like he was stating the obvious, but Mycroft’s awkward body language suggested a self-conscious streak.

He looked away. “Thanks. I’m… um, not Sherlock.”

“I should hope not,” Greg said with a grin.

Mycroft smiled and took off his trousers. As he leaned into the standalone shower to turn on the water, Greg got a lovely view of his long, toned legs—he’d always had a thing for legs, maybe it was the running. When he turned back around, Greg pulled him in for a kiss. Mycroft melted into it.

“God, you’re sexy,” Greg murmured.

“I was thinking the same thing. I still can’t believe you’re actually here.”

“Yeah, having a successful date despite ourselves.”

The water finally ran hot and steam started to wisp across the top of the shower partition.

“We should use the hot water while it lasts,” Mycroft said. “The infernal thing goes cold when you least expect it.”

Greg opened the glass door and dragged him inside. “You don’t need to tell me twice.” He unashamedly groped his arse, pulling Mycroft closer to him, then he kissed him again and said, “So, that sex in the shower thing…”

“Yes?”

“Well, if we kept it simple…”

Mycroft leaned in and ran his hand along the back of Greg’s neck, pulling him close enough to kiss, but not quite. He looked into Greg’s eyes as the water hit their chests and ran down, with only the steam to dampen their faces. “What did you have in mind?” he asked, his voice low and dark.

 _Christ._ Mycroft’s voice _did_ _things_ to him. “Something with me on my knees, making you moan,” Greg said, running his tongue across his lips. Mycroft’s cock, already half-hard, pressed eagerly against his own at the suggestion. “I want to see you come undone again.”

Mycroft moaned and kissed him, his free hand tracing the toned muscles of Greg’s back. “I thought we were in here so you could wash your hair,” he said when he pulled away, smiling.

“Then give me some shampoo so we can get on to more interesting things,” Greg replied. He’d planned to make it the quickest scrub in history—not needing much time for his short hair even on normal days—but Mycroft had other ideas, slowly, sensuously working it across Greg’s scalp. His whole body tingled as long, elegant fingers massaged his skull. It was sort of like the time Sally had talked him into getting his hair cut at that ‘salon’ instead of his regular barber—they’d washed it for him before they cut it—but this was _infinitely_ better. When Mycroft switched to using light pressure with his fingernails, every nerve on his head lit up and sent a cascade of sparks down his spine. “Christ—you’re _really_ good with your hands.”

“Wait until you see what else I can do with them,” Mycroft said cheekily.

Greg washed the soap out of his hair and crowded him back against the wall of the shower, out of the spray. “Now it’s my turn,” he said, dropping to his knees.

Mycroft let out a moan, bracing himself against the wall as Greg knelt in front of him and grasped his cock.

Greg darted his tongue out, teasing the head of it and tasting him as if he were some decadent treat. When Mycroft pushed his hips forward in desperation, he wrapped his mouth around the shaft and sank down as far as he could, earning a gratifyingly loud moan.

“Doesn’t… seem fair… that I should have… all the fun,” Mycroft said, struggling to form words as Greg sucked his cock with long, sure strokes.

Greg gently slapped his thigh, trying to get him to be quiet and not worry about who got what. He was having just as much fun as Mycroft. Having his thick, hot shaft in his mouth—forcing his jaw open just a bit more than was strictly comfortable—he loved this. He pulled off a little and ran his tongue in long, sensuous strokes around the head of it. Whatever propriety had stopped Mycroft from grabbing Greg’s head suddenly evaporated and he felt strong, sure fingers wrapped around the base of his neck—supporting, not pulling, not forcing… but the _need_ —Greg could feel how much Mycroft wanted to hold his head in place and force his cock into his mouth, and _fuck,_ that was hot. He reached up and covered Mycroft’s fingers with his own, using them to push himself deeper in a silent invitation.

“Oh, _God_ ,” Mycroft moaned above him. He thrust his hips forward, no longer bothering to hold back.

If his mouth hadn’t been stuffed full, Greg would have _beamed_. There was nothing like the rush of being able to give pleasure like this—he enjoyed it even more than receiving it—the sheer joy of reducing someone to incoherent moans. He relaxed his throat as much as he could and let Mycroft take his mouth as hard and fast as he wanted.

Somehow, even fucking Greg’s face, Mycroft was a considerate lover. He didn’t blindly take his pleasure without regard to Greg’s breathing or comfort. Greg wouldn’t have minded if he did. A little bit of force at his own expense was never a bad thing—he sort of got off on it—but he suspected that was another thing you didn’t mention on a first date. Then he remembered Mycroft’s lovely, sensual reactions to the times _he’d_ been a bit dominant, and he wondered if Mycroft would be surprised after all.

His grip on the back of his neck got tighter, his thrusts more irregular. Greg had every intention of swallowing him as he came, but Mycroft pulled out of his mouth at the last second, the thick fluid pulsing across Greg’s cheeks. It was filthy and sexy in a way he hadn’t expected.

Mycroft stood there for a few seconds, propped against the wall, recovering. “God, that was incredible,” he said in a shaky voice as he offered Greg a hand. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure was mine,” Greg said, turning back into the still-hot water and letting the spray wash Mycroft’s semen from his face.

“Sorry about that,” Mycroft said, “but we hadn’t talked about it and I didn’t want to presume anything.”

Greg laughed. “You’re ridiculously considerate, you know that? Thanks, though.” He debated a second before adding, “I probably shouldn’t tell you I thought it was fucking hot.”

Mycroft looked a bit sheepish. “Yeah, it was. I had no idea.” He glanced down at Greg’s erection and said, “May I?”

“You don’t have to,” Greg said, pulling him in for a kiss. He moved his hand down to Mycroft’s arse to pull them closer together, trapping his erection between them. He tilted his hips up in an experimental thrust; Mycroft’s damp curls dragged across his cock with a delicious sensation that made his eyes tilt back in his head.

Mycroft kissed his neck at the hollow of his collarbone, licking and sucking unrestrainedly, while his hand insinuated its way between their bodies. His long fingers wrapped around Greg’s cock, and he stopped kissing his neck long enough to say, “Or perhaps you’d prefer it if I did this?”

Greg’s mind was too overheated to _prefer_ anything _._ Mycroft could stand there and _talk_ and he’d probably come. His voice had no right being that sexy. Or his hands. Or those lovely, long legs of his. _Fuck._

“Do you like me rubbing on you like this?” Mycroft whispered, his lips barely touching Greg’s ear. “Or would you like my mouth?”

“Anything,” Greg said, sounding utterly wrecked. “So close,” he added, and he was—a few strokes more was all it took for the tightly wound coil in his gut to release into a wave of pleasure, and he threw his head back and moaned as it coursed through him. Mycroft held him close as he rode it out. A warm glow replaced the bright-edged focus he’d had just moments before, and he relaxed into Mycroft’s embrace as his body decided it was utterly _done_ with the whole business of keeping him upright.

After a minute or so of lazy kissing, Mycroft said, “I hate to rush things, but we’re probably going to run out of hot water any minute now.”

Greg gave him a relaxed grin. “With that voice of yours, I’ll bet you could _talk_ it into staying hot.”

“I think you overestimate my abilities.” He got out and tossed Greg a fluffy towel. “That shower is a lot more fun with two people—they should put that in the brochure.”

“Mm,” Greg replied, “and your voice should come with a warning label—sinful and impossible to resist.”

“Really? I never thought it was much to listen to.”

“They say we all sound different to ourselves, but yours is like liquid sex—you could read the phone book and I’d go to pieces.”

“Well, I’ve never had anyone say _that_ before. Sherlock tells me I sound like a pompous arse.”

“I assume you’ve never whispered filthy things in his ear?”

“Not unless you count exchanging restrained insults.”

Greg smiled. “Thank God for that, really.”

* * *

They decided against dinner out, instead opting for take-away from an Indian place near Greg’s flat.

“I’ll go and get it,” Greg said. “It’s not far. Do you know what you want?”

Mycroft frowned. “Not really. I’ll come with you if you’d like.”

“Well, I was going to take the tube and stop off at my flat as well. Get a change of clothes, if you still don’t mind me staying.” His flat still had last night’s dishes in the sink; he really wanted to clean up a bit before letting Mycroft see it.

“Of course I want you to stay. Wouldn’t it be easier to take a taxi?”

“Um, yeah, I suppose.” It shot a hole in his ‘you won’t want to come on public transport’ option. “Didn’t want to drag you out in this weather.” A heavy drizzle had soaked into the roads over the past few hours, reflecting the lights of the passing traffic. Pretty, but oppressive.

“I won’t mind, you know,” Mycroft said.

“Mind what?”

“Whatever it is you don’t want me to see in your flat. I presume you aren’t hiding dead bodies?”

He smiled awkwardly. “No, it’s more the state of the kitchen.”

“We can take a taxi, and I’ll get the food while you get your things. It’ll be quicker and your kitchen will remain unseen.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Greg fiddled with his phone and passed it to him. “We should phone the order in first. Here’s the menu; it’s all pretty good.”

Mycroft examined it. “The chicken curry sounds good.”

“What do you want to do afterwards? Watch a film?”

“Do you mean go out?”

“No, on a DVD.”

“Ah. I generally read. I only have a few films here.”

“I can grab something from home. What genre? I’ll warn you up front, I’m not big on sappy romantic comedies or musicals.”

A slightly-relieved smile crossed Mycroft’s face. “Well, that’s a start. Comedy?”

“Hm.” Greg mentally ran through a list of his favourites. _“True Lies_ or _Hot Fuzz?_ One for each profession.”

Mycroft gave him a blank look. “Sorry?”

“Oh, well _True Lies_ is about a spy inadvertently dragging his family into a terrorist plot, and _Hot Fuzz_ is a send-up of ‘buddy cop’ movies set in the Cotswolds. They’re both really funny.”

“You pick.”

“ _Hot Fuzz._ You can’t go wrong with Simon Pegg.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I’ll take your word for it. What do you drink, other than coffee?”

“Usually beer.”

“I don’t have any, I’m afraid. Perhaps you could bring some of that as well?”

“Yeah, no problem. I have some at home. Pick up my trainers as well,” he said, flashing Mycroft a grin.

A little while later, they arrived back at Mycroft’s flat with a delicious-smelling bag of Indian food, some cold beers, and a change of clothes for Greg. Mycroft started to set the table, and without thinking, Greg frowned a little.

“What is it?” Mycroft asked, immediately picking up on it.

“Nothing.”

“You’re not a very good liar.”

“Nothing important. I was thinking we could eat it while we watched the film, but I can understand why you wouldn’t want food in the front room. Especially curry-coloured food.”

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “That hadn’t even occurred to me. Of course we can eat in there.”

“You sure?”

“Mm. Here, help me with these containers.”

“You can eat right out of them.”

Mycroft blinked at him.

“—or you can empty them onto plates, like any sane person would. Forget I mentioned it,” he added, quickly.

Which was how they ended up eating chicken curry out of takeaway containers, with cloth napkins.

From the opening moments of the film, Mycroft had a huge grin. By the end of it, they’d settled comfortably against each other on the sofa with Mycroft periodically breaking into fits of giggles.

“That was fantastic—I didn’t think I’d be able to relate to it.”

“Oh? Chased down a lot of murderous villagers in your time?”

“No—we grew up just outside of a boring little town where we’d try and deduce everyone’s dark secrets.”

“Nice. I always identified with being on the force, myself.”

“It’s the police _service_ ,‘force’ is too aggressive’,” Mycroft deadpanned, quoting the film.

“Bloody hell, you really were paying attention!”

“I have a good memory.”

“Oh,” Greg said, chuckling evilly, “there are so many films I want you to watch.” The idea of Mycroft quoting random film lines at Sherlock made him positively gleeful, especially since everybody _except_ Sherlock would probably get the references.

Mycroft sat up from where he’d been lounging against Greg and stretched his back.

“Tired?”

“No, not really. Just been in one place for too long. Do you want something for pudding?”

“I don’t know—a couple of biscuits or something, maybe?” They’d been too full after their Indian feast to have anything sweet.

“If I’d thought, I would have made something. Sorry.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m fine.”

Opening the fridge, Mycroft said, “Hm. I really don’t have much. I don’t keep many sweet things in the house—too many hours behind a desk as it is. Oh, I do have some Greek yogurt. I know that’s not very sexy as far as food goes.”

“No, that’d be great. I love yogurt.”

A few moments later, Mycroft presented him with a delicate glass dish of yogurt, drizzled with honey, topped by a wafer biscuit. Greg had never seen something so simple look so stylish. “You know, if the spy thing ever falls through, you should consider being a cook. This is amazing.” Mycroft shrugged off the compliment but smiled.

As they ate, Mycroft said, “It’s not very late—do you want to watch another film or go to bed?”

He nervously wondered if Mycroft was expecting more sex. There was no way he’d be able to wring another orgasm from his body—he wasn’t twenty anymore. “Um, I should warn you, I’m not sure I can handle more than two in a day.” Mycroft, of course, hadn’t been privy to his internal monologue.

“What, films?”

“Er, no. Orgasms. Um, I just didn’t want you to think I’d be able to… I mean, I might—I don’t know… I’ve never…” he trailed off in a haze of embarrassment.

“Oh!” Mycroft said, suddenly catching on. “God no, I don’t think I can either. Sometimes I wish I’d made better use of my body when I was younger.”

“Or worse use,” Greg joked.

“Exactly. Let’s just say that if we’d met twenty years ago, I probably wouldn’t let you get _any_ sleep. Now, unfortunately, you’ll only find out if I steal the covers.”

Greg laughed. “I’m not sure if I do or not; I’ve never had anyone to tell me. Most nights, I’m out like a light. Love a good sleep.”

Mycroft frowned. “Really? I tend to view it as a necessary waste of time that slows down my productivity.”

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“So it would seem.”

“I could teach you how to sleep, as well as run.”

“I might be a _very_ slow learner.”

“I’m willing to take that risk.”

* * *

Greg hadn’t slept with anyone for a good ten years. Not _slept_. In the same bed. He was a bit nervous.

They undressed down to their boxers and Mycroft pulled back the duvet.

_Nice pillows, nice sheets, mattress almost twice as thick as mine. I’m glad we’re not at my place; he’d probably be horrified._

“This part always looks easier in the films,” Mycroft said. “People just fall into bed in the heat of passion and then it fades to black.”

“They don’t always fade to black; it depends on the type of film.”

Mycroft laughed at that, a little nervously.

“Sorry. I’m a bit out of my comfort zone, too,” Greg continued. “I make bad jokes when I’m nervous.” They climbed into bed and lay on their sides, facing each other. Greg ran a hand down across Mycroft’s chest, idly curling his chest hair between his fingertips. “I still can’t believe we ended up here. That I got so lucky.”

Mycroft looked away, embarrassed by the compliment.

“No, really. I mean it. What are the odds we would have met if you hadn’t stalked me?” He’d meant it to be lighthearted, but Mycroft just cringed even more. Greg reached over and touched his face, gently turning Mycroft’s gaze back towards him. “I’m in bed with someone who’s intelligent, interesting, funny… not to mention gorgeous. Even if you take out the sex, I don’t remember the last time I had such a good day.”

Mycroft broke into an unguarded smile. “Thanks. I feel the same way. Still, I just keep waiting for you to realise I’m a boring, pompous git and that’ll be the end of it.”

“I keep expecting you to decide you don’t want to hang out with a civil servant who barely made it through school.”

“So we both have self-esteem issues.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Perhaps this’ll help,” Mycroft murmured as he leaned over and kissed him.

It was gentle, unhurried—more a kiss of familiarity than burning passion. It was the sort of kiss you got from someone who knew exactly who you were and wanted to be with you anyway; someone who didn’t just want you for the sex. It felt so right it almost hurt. “Yeah, that helps,” Greg said, smiling softly. “We should do it again though, just to make sure.”

After laying in a content and happy silence for a while, Greg said, “So, don’t think I’m being weird, but how do you sleep?”

Mycroft chuckled. “On my side, with one leg pulled up and my head resting on my arm. You?”

“Sprawled all over the bed. It’s just, well, I’ve gotten used to it over the years. I don’t mind cuddling, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep that way.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Oh?”

“I know exactly what you mean. Arms falling asleep because they’re trapped, you can’t turn over when you want to, getting all warm and sweaty because someone is clinging to you like a limpet—I’m sure it works for some people, but once I’m ready to sleep, I need my space. Luckily, I have a large bed.”

“Among other things,” Greg said, with a trace of innuendo.

“Yes, I’ve heard my shower is particularly spacious,” Mycroft deadpanned.

Greg thought for a second, trying—and failing—to come up with a clever response. He gave in, laughing. “Yeah, all right. I’ve got nothing.”

Mycroft flashed him a victorious grin.

“See,” Greg said, “not a trace of ‘pompous git’.” He gave him a quick kiss. “So, do you still want to go running tomorrow?”

“I’d love to.”

Greg beamed. “If you change your mind between now and then, will you put on the tights for me anyway?”

“For a sex-crazed lunatic, you’re incredibly charming.”

“Is that a yes?”

Mycroft grinned at him affectionately, then said, “Are you tired?”

“Not really. You?”

“No. A bit _giddy_ to be honest. Do you want to go and watch another film? Maybe it’ll help us wind down a little. Perhaps a drink, too.”

“Yeah, sounds good. I only brought the one though, sorry.”

“Do you ever watch _Lewis_?”

Greg frowned. It sounded vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place it.

“Murder mysteries based in Oxford. Lighter than it sounds.”

“Sure, sounds good.” He’d have watched paint dry if it meant he could curl up with him again. He got out of the bed and went to get his clothes, but Mycroft interrupted him.

“I have some pyjamas, if you’d rather. Or a dressing gown?”

“Sure, I’ll take a dressing gown.” He wasn’t about to miss out on the chance to be half-naked. Mycroft had already shrugged on one over his boxers; perhaps he could count Mycroft’s freckles. He took the silk robe. It fit him—close enough, anyway: a bit long, but it wasn’t like he cared.

“It looks good,” Mycroft said as he tied the belt closed.

“Yeah, so do you.” _Oops. Smooth._ “Er, yours.” He winced—now he was mangling the English language as well, but it didn’t look like Mycroft minded, going by the smile he got. The royal blue suited him.

“I’ll turn up the heat a little so we don’t catch cold.”

“We could always ‘huddle together for warmth’,” Greg joked.

“Hm, point taken. Do you drink Scotch?”

“No, but only because I’m too cheap to buy anything good.”

“I have a few nice ones.”

If Mycroft was calling them ‘nice’, it was probably the understatement of the year. As it turned out, he _did_ like good Scotch, and they settled in to watch the first episode.

“Have you ever been to Oxford?” Mycroft asked.

“No. I should—looks nice.” It was true, but it also looked completely intimidating and not the sort of place he’d fit in. “Can’t imagine going to school somewhere like that, though.”

“In what way?”

“They seem so out of touch with the rest of the world.”

There was a pause before Mycroft said, “I went to Cambridge.”

“Oh. God. Of course you did. Leave it to me to stick my foot in my mouth again. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“No, you’re spot on actually. They are. The education was wonderful but the people can be insufferable. Where’d you go to school?”

He fidgeted with the tie on his dressing gown, feeling inadequate. “I didn’t.” His own academic performance had been ‘barely adequate’ and university hadn’t been in the cards. “I mucked around in dead-end jobs for a bit after I finished school, and then I joined the force in my twenties.”

“You made a good career for yourself there.”

“S’pose so. It was good for me; I never really knew what to do with myself. Did you always plan to go into politics?”

Mycroft chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“I wouldn’t characterise what I do as ‘politics’, exactly.”

“Oh? Did you get a first in ‘spy’ at Cambridge?”

“No, they had more of an ‘on-the-job training programme’. I spent most of my time at school with my head in a book.”

“Makes me wish I’d lived in Cambridge while you were there.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I could have met you twenty years earlier.” He looked over at him and smiled. “But I don’t think they’d have let me on the school grounds, let alone go out with someone like you.”

“Why not?”

“Punk t-shirts; torn jeans; motorbike…”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, intrigued. “Sounds delicious. I don’t suppose I could talk you into an outfit like that sometime?”

“I’d have to buy some first; they’ve all been replaced with boring office clothes.”

“What about the bike?”

“It died ages ago, but I have a better one now.” He grinned, cheekily, and added, “Enough room for two.”

“Teach me how to ride?”

“I’d love to. I don’t get out on it much these days.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Well, between the traffic and the weather, London’s not much fun, but outside the city it’s a blast.”

“I’ve always envied people like you.”

Greg stared at him with disbelief. “You must be joking. Why?”

“The punk scene, the bike. I don’t know. You’ve done interesting things. I’ve always felt terminally dull.”

“Says the former spy…”

“I told you—it’s not nearly as interesting as the films make out. Other than the travel, it’s mostly sitting around waiting for people. Well, until something goes wrong.”

“The ‘interesting youth’ part isn’t nearly as sexy as it sounds, believe me. The secondhand clothes were more about money than fashion. I got the bike for a courier job. All of those things look better with twenty years between you and them. When I was dragging parcels around London in the rain, I would have given my right arm for a desk job somewhere dry.”

Mycroft smiled. “Point taken. I’ve led a pretty charmed life.”

“Nothing wrong with that, if you can get it. And I can’t say I regret learning to ride, although my sister’s always on at me to give it up.”

“Oh?”

“Works in A&E. Tells me I’ll end up dead.”

“Lovely.”

“That’s what families are for, right? She’s always on at me about something.”

Mycroft nodded. “Suppose so.”

“What did yours say when you went into intelligence?”

“I didn’t tell them. It wasn’t until I got shot that they figured it out; they always thought I was in the diplomatic corps.”

Greg burst out laughing. “Sorry. I know that’s not funny, it’s just… well, it is.”

Smiling, Mycroft said, “They didn’t see the humour in it, but there was some satisfaction in having been more ‘interesting’ than people gave me credit for.”

“How did Sherlock react?” As soon as Greg said it, Mycroft’s expression went dark.

“He hated me for lying to him; we’d always shared everything before that. On the plus side, it got him into detective work. He wanted to prove he was more interesting than I was.”

“I suppose he forgave you?”

“You know how it is with siblings; there’s always rivalry there. But yes, more or less. I got a desk job, and he’s running around London; so as far as he’s concerned, he’s a lot more interesting.”

Greg affectionately rubbed his foot against Mycroft’s. “As tempting as it is, I won’t tell him the truth.”

By the time the episode was over and the mystery solved, they could barely keep their eyes open. They’d shifted positions a few times, and Mycroft ended up sprawled across the sofa with his head resting in Greg’s lap. Had it been earlier in the day it might have been sexual, but they were both so exhausted that it was comfortably affectionate. Greg’s hand rested on Mycroft’s shoulder, lazily tracing the patterns in the blue silk.

“Bed?” Mycroft said as the credits scrolled up the screen.

“Mm. So tired. Getting too old for late nights.”

“Me too.”

They collapsed into Mycroft’s luxurious bed, more easily this time—they’d already had the awkward conversation about sleeping preferences and the general strangeness of ‘going to bed’ without the sexual innuendo it implied.

“Today was wonderful,” Mycroft said, and Greg leaned over and kissed him.

“Mm. It was, thanks.”

They smiled at each other like they were teenagers getting away with something.

Mycroft squeezed Greg’s hand. “Sleep well.”

“You too, gorgeous.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains three potentially disturbing subjects. Two of them are listed in the tags, but one is a major spoiler that I did not want to tag. They're in the End Notes if you want to check first.

Mycroft rarely dreamed. When he did, it was of mountains of paperwork that never shrank.

But this time he was a small boy again, wearing shorts and a plaid cotton shirt, standing on the shale-pebble beach where they went on holiday every year. Mummy wasn’t there—or Father, or Sherlock. Just him.

He wandered back to one of the shallow caves, clambering across rocks still wet from high tide. This one went farther back than they usually did. The sound of the waves crashing in the distance should have been soothing, but it wasn’t. It made him nervous.

Turning around, he headed back towards the entrance, but it was gone. How was that possible? He’d only just come in. He couldn’t see the beach anymore, and the cave seemed to be closing in around him in the dim light.

The summer heat started to get to him, and he undid the top two buttons of his shirt. Mummy wouldn’t mind. _Odd, though._ He didn’t remember it being this warm earlier. The air was too stuffy; too heavy. Perhaps he was using too much of it. He tried to breathe less. That would help. _Yes._

He could reach out and touch the walls of the cave now; it wasn’t much larger than he was. He curled up on the rock. He’d find the way out after he’d had a rest.

He was just falling asleep when an ear-piercing shriek filled the air.

_Gulls. Never give you a moment’s peace._

The shriek of the birds and the crash of the waves faded into the distance. He was too tired to care about them. Too tired to care about the overly-stuffy air. Thought he’d ask to go to Scotland for his holiday next year. _Cooler. Quieter_. Then he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

“Mycroft, get up! For God’s sake, get up!”

Greg had woken up when the fire alarm went off, pulling him from a nice dream he couldn’t remember. Now there was just the horrifying sight of smoke curling across the ceiling and the red glow of flames licking at the wall. It took him a few seconds to realise what was happening; it still didn’t seem possible.

He shook Mycroft, trying to wake him, but to no effect. Between his own shouting and the noise of the fire alarm, there was only one possibility—Mycroft wasn’t asleep; he was unconscious.

“Fuck,” he said—one word, under his breath—as the enormity of the situation hit him.

His dad had been a volunteer fireman and he remembered him talking about the dangers of smoke inhalation—how it killed more people than the fire itself. He wasn’t sure why he’d been lucky enough to wake up while Mycroft had succumbed to the toxic gases, but they both had to get out of there before neither of them could.

The acrid smoke burned at his lungs and he tried to breathe as little as possible. Could he make a mask from a pillowcase? _No time._ Slipping down off the bed, he hurried to Mycroft’s side. He was about to drape him over his shoulder but the smoke was getting thicker and lower; if they were going to get out, they’d need to be closer to the floor. He grasped him under his shoulders, lowering him to the ground with a thud. He checked the room again, re-evaluating. The fire was still on the one side of the house, most likely having started in the house next door. In some small act of mercy, the stairs were on the other side of the house, and—while rapidly filling with smoke—showed no imminent signs of fire.

Hooking his arms beneath Mycroft’s shoulders, he backed towards the bedroom doorway as quickly as possible. Checking again to make sure they’d be able to make it without being cornered, he backed down the stairs with Mycroft’s feet thumping on each one as he went down. They made it down both flights, and—bracing Mycroft with one arm—he was able to open the front door and pull him into the cold, fresh night air. He hoped it would bring Mycroft around, but it didn’t. No longer afraid of the smoke inhalation, and reluctant to drag Mycroft’s bare feet across the asphalt, he pulled him up over his shoulder and hurried to the other side of the road. He could hear sirens rapidly approaching, and he hoped to God one of them was an ambulance.

A few people came out of their houses, wondering what the fuss was about.

“Don’t just look,” Greg shouted, “see if you can help! Check the other houses and get him a blanket or something!”

Someone said something about Mrs Chenowyth being on holiday. With any luck, it meant the other house was empty.

They hurried off, chastened, as Greg laid Mycroft gently on his back, bending over him to check for breathing. Hearing nothing, he panicked, but then the instructions from his mandatory first aid courses kicked in, and he tipped Mycroft’s head back so his airway wasn’t obstructed. As soon as he did, Mycroft’s chest rose and he started taking shallow breaths. Greg heaved a sigh of relief. He tried to remember: had Mycroft been breathing inside? He hadn’t checked. _Stupid._ He tried to replay the events in his head. _He must have been breathing because I thought he was asleep._ _Right?_ He couldn’t remember. He made to note to sign up for a refresher first aid course as soon as he could.

The air that had felt refreshingly cool when they’d left the house now chilled him to the bone; the adrenaline coursing through his system was starting to wear off. Mycroft had no such defences and his skin had lost its usual creamy tone, turning a ghastly blue-grey. He cursed the ambulances for being too slow. Where were those orange shock blankets when you needed them?

A fire engine pulled up and two ambulances stopped right next to it, sealing off the major road from traffic. As the firemen started to work on the blaze, two paramedics ran up to them.

“Smoke inhalation,” Greg said. “He’s unconscious but breathing.”

“Any other injuries?”

“None that I know of. I pulled him down the stairs under his arms.”

A third paramedic appeared with a gurney, and they carefully rolled Mycroft onto a sheet and lifted him onto the stretcher. A shock blanket appeared from somewhere, and Greg wrapped it around himself as he watched them wheel Mycroft to the ambulance. Someone wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm.

“I’m fine,” Greg said with irritation, trying to follow Mycroft to the ambulance. “Is he going to be all right?”

“We’ll do our best,” she said, “but you have to let me do my job. You were in there as well, right?”

“Yes.”

“All right, let’s get you started on oxygen. Stay here while I get a stretcher.”

“I don’t need a bloody stretcher!”

She glared at him and went to get one anyway.

Still wearing only a shock blanket and his boxers, he hurried over to Mycroft’s ambulance before she could come back. They’d fitted him with an oxygen mask and had put an IV in his arm. A blood pressure cuff inflated at regular intervals, the readout showing on a screen along with his pulse and oxygen saturation. Greg knew enough about medicine to know that none of the numbers were good; all of them looked too low.

Greg climbed onto the back step to get a better look at him.

He was grey.

And still unconscious.

“Okay, I think we’re all set. Let’s get going,” one of the paramedics said. “You’ll have to get down, sir. The other ambulance will take you to A&E shortly.”

“I need to go with him. Look, I know I’m not bad off or you’d have me on a stretcher already, so can I just sit on the bench and ride in with him?”

“You need oxygen.”

“Fine. Give me oxygen—I don’t need to be on my back for that. Please?” He couldn’t leave Mycroft alone. Not like this.

“We really can’t do that.”

“I work for the Met—I’ve _seen_ it done. Please, I’m asking you a favour. I’ll hold on tight every time you go around a corner.” He was careful not to make it sound sarcastic. He was used to getting his way, giving orders at crime scenes, not pleading for permission from an emergency worker.

“Sorry, sir, we can only do that for immediate family.”

Greg didn’t even flinch. “He’s my husband.”

The paramedic sighed. “All right, come on then, but they’re going to separate you when we get there. Kim, can you get him some oxygen and a gown?”

* * *

They’d been rushed off to different areas as soon as they got to A&E. Well, to be more accurate, they rushed Mycroft off to the Intensive Care Unit, and he’d been assigned to a curtained-off section of the emergency ward. A small parade of people came through, taking blood and asking questions.

He didn’t feel any worse than when he’d chain-smoked in his teens.

“Any news about Mycroft Holmes yet?” he asked the doctor. And the radiologist who took the chest x-ray. And the nurses. And kept asking, until they told him that they’d let him know the minute something changed.

There was no news; well, nothing new. He was still unconscious, but stable. They’d moved him to a room.

They asked Greg if there was any family who should be notified of Mycroft’s condition.

“I’ll do it,” he said, reaching for his phone—only to realise that his mobile, his wallet, keys—everything had been lost in the fire. He gave them Sherlock’s name; he couldn’t remember the number. Who used numbers anymore? It was all contacts and speed-dial.

Sherlock walked in an hour later. He looked harrowed but still managed to be sarcastic. “Lestrade. Glad you’re all right. Congratulations on your wedding.”

Greg remembered what he’d told the ambulance workers and muttered, “Oh, God.”

“On a first date, too? I didn’t think you’d move that fast.”

Greg ignored the remark. “Did they tell you anything about his condition?” he asked desperately.

“He’s stable. That’s all they’ll say,” Sherlock replied, looking glum. “What about you?”

“I’m fine. They won’t let me out of this damned bed, though.”

“I don’t see what’s stopping you.”

He had a point. It didn’t feel like the oxygen they’d put him on two hours ago was doing anything, and although he still had an IV in, it was only delivering a bag of saline. He debated just pulling the thin tube from his arm, but that wasn’t going to make him any friends. “Find me an IV stand that moves.” Sherlock glared at him. “Please.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Just take it out. It’s not like you need it.”

“I know you find the idea hard to grasp, but I’m trying to annoy as few people as possible.”

Sherlock grumbled but started looking. “There isn’t anything here, but there’s one on this wheelchair.”

“Bloody hell,” Greg muttered. “Fine. It’ll do.”

He settled into the seat with his half-used bag of saline on the hook above him, then Sherlock pushed him out of the curtained room, not looking remotely like a hospital staffer in his ridiculous coat.

They were stopped before they got halfway down the hallway.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in 3B?”

“He’s fine,” Sherlock said, all attitude.

Greg would have kicked him if he hadn’t been behind the wheelchair. “Sorry, doctor. I wanted to visit Mycroft. I kept the IV in,” he said, giving him a weak smile and trying to look compliant. He didn’t mention the oxygen.

“And who are you?” he asked.

“I’m the brother, he’s the husband,” Sherlock replied, but then all the snark went out of his voice as he added, “and I’m sure Mycroft would be incredibly grateful if we’re both there when he wakes up.”

The doctor sighed and listened to Greg’s lungs. “All right, but don’t go anywhere else. We have to monitor you for a while; toxicity doesn’t always show up immediately.”

“Thank you,” Greg said, with immense relief. “I _really_ appreciate it.”

He nodded. “Do you need the wheelchair?”

“No—I didn’t want to take out the IV and I couldn’t find a stand.”

“Good. If you’d pulled it, I wouldn’t be letting you go up there just on general principles. You don’t need the saline though, so I’ll unhook it and leave the line in.” He disconnected the IV bag and Greg got out of the wheelchair. “And if you start feeling any different, get someone to find me.”

“Thanks so much.”

“I wasn’t joking—don’t leave the hospital.”

“’Course. I just want to see him.” Newly freed from his tether, he took off for Mycroft’s room at a quick clip, Sherlock following on his heels.

When he walked in, he was relieved to see Mycroft had regained his normal skin tone and was no longer the terrifying shade of grey he’d been earlier. There were tubes and wires everywhere. An oxygen tube snaked into his nose, monitors measured his vital signs, and electrode wires running from beneath the blanket provided detailed information on his heart. If Greg hadn’t known he was ‘stable’, he would have been terrified. He was anyway. He sat down in the hard plastic chair next to the bed and waited.

* * *

The room swam around him in a soft-edged blur of white.

It wasn’t his bedroom.

“Mycroft,” he heard someone say. “Oh, thank God.” It sounded like Greg. He felt a warm palm covering his hand, and Greg’s face came into view.

_Why is everything so fuzzy?_

It hurt to think.

Blurry Greg beamed at him and squeezed his hand. “Mycroft.”

“You’ll have to step back, sir,” someone said and loomed over him. “Mr Holmes, can you look at me?”

He was aware of a flurry of activity, but his mind still hadn’t put it together. “Greg?” he said. His throat burned.

“Please don’t talk, Mr Holmes.”

“You’re in the hospital, Mycroft,” Greg said. “There was a fire at your house; do you remember anything?”

He remembered their evening, and going to bed, but that was it. “No.”

The nurses asked him endless questions, while at the same time admonishing him if he spoke. Everything hurt. His head, his chest, his throat. He limited his responses to small nods and shakes of his head. The oxygen tube tugged against his face each time he did.

“God, it’s good to see you back.” Greg’s voice was soothing, somehow.

He smiled as well as he could.

It took a while before he felt more coherent, and slightly longer before the nurses (and subsequent doctor) left him alone with Greg. He found he could talk a little if he whispered and didn’t breathe too deeply. “How long have I been out?”

“About six hours.”

He raised his eyebrows. Six hours wasn’t good.

“God, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“I’d hardly call this ‘okay’.”

“Believe me, it’s an improvement. I texted Sherlock to let him know you’re awake. He’ll be back soon.”

Mycroft nodded and tried not to think about how much his chest hurt.

Greg bit his lower lip nervously. “You have some damage to your throat and lungs, but they say it’ll heal given time.”

He squinted at Greg, sitting there in a hospital gown with an IV port stuck in his arm. “What about you?”

“Fine. All fine. They even let me up here to see you.”

He frowned. “I thought only family members were allowed in ICU?”

Greg looked away, sheepishly. “Ah. Well. I might have told them we were married. I did. But only so I could ride with you in the ambulance, and come up here, obviously. I know it’s a bit presumptuous and all, but I couldn’t watch them take you away alone like that. Not with you unconscious. I see too many people at crime scenes disappearing into the back of ambulances,” he said, trailing off. He glanced away with a frown, looking shaken. 

Mycroft managed a weak grin. “A short courtship, then?”

Greg looked back at him and squeezed his hand tighter. “God, I’m glad you’re okay.”

A second later, Sherlock strode into the room, John following closely behind. “Mycroft. Didn’t even invite me to the wedding?” he joked. He laid a hand fondly on Mycroft’s shoulder and added, “It’s good to see you awake. I was worried about you.”

“Smoke inhalation’s a nasty business,” John said. “I’m glad it wasn’t worse. You should feel a lot better by the time you get out.”

“What do you mean, ‘get out’? I’d hoped they were just keeping me overnight for observation.”

John winced. “I’m obviously not your doctor, but it’s more likely to be a week or two, depending on how quickly you heal.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I’ve got better things to do than sit around here,” he muttered. Looking at everyone peering down at him, he said, “At least prop me up so I don’t feel like I’m laid out on a slab.” He saw both John and Greg look uncomfortable at his choice of words—which he had to admit might not have been the most appropriate.

“I phoned Mummy; they’ll be here by this afternoon.”

“Did you really have to?” he said with a sigh.

“You know I’d never hear the end of it if I didn’t. Don’t worry, they know you’re out of the woods, and you’re officially not required to talk very much.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re secretly thrilled,” Mycroft replied.

* * *

The hospital discharged Greg that afternoon under the condition that he come back immediately if he started showing any delayed symptoms. John loaned him his mobile, claiming the only person who phoned him was Sherlock, and Greg gratefully accepted it; he could get a new one tomorrow. They asked if they could do anything else, and he waved it off, forgetting—until the hospital started the discharge process—that he had no clothes, no keys, and no money. He didn’t want to phone Sherlock and John back just to ask for cash. They’d have to take a taxi all the way back to the hospital, and Sherlock would probably be smug about his lack of forethought. So he rang his sister—at least she had a car, and that was what family was supposed to do, right? Help out in situations like this?

Still, the thought of dealing with her at the moment was almost as unappealing as dealing with a smug Sherlock. They’d never really got along. With a resigned sigh, he dialled her number.

“Hey Jan, it’s me.”

“Who’s John Watson, and why are you using his phone?”

_A ‘hello’ would have been nice_ , he thought.

_This_ was why they didn’t get along. She didn’t approve of his ‘lifestyle choice’ and preferred to be left in the dark concerning his sex life. He could understand the latter—siblings and all that—but he’d never got over the sting of rejection or her belief that ‘choice’ had anything to do with being gay. Not that he’d have ‘chosen’ differently.

“It’s complicated. Look, I need to ask you a favour. I need a ride.”

“Now?” she said, in an exasperated tone. “Katie’s got friends round to play. Why can’t you get a cab?”

“Well, that’s the thing.” He took a deep breath and launched into it. “I’m at the hospital, and I don’t have any cash.”

“Oh my God, what happened?”

“There was a fire. I’m fine, but I need to get home and everything sort of went up in flames.”

“Your flat? Oh my God. Where are you going to live?”

She’d misunderstood. “No, um, it wasn’t my flat.” He cringed and added, “I was staying with a friend.” He waited for her response, knowing he shouldn’t care about her disapproval but dreading it all the same.

“Oh,” she said. That was all, her tone icy.

“Give me a break, yeah? I just want a ride and a few quid for a locksmith. I can’t get any money until the banks open tomorrow.” He was about to add, ‘I could have died, and God knows I don’t want to deal with you right now,’ but decided it was self-defeating. He needed her help.

She heaved a sigh. “All right. But I’ll have to get Katie’s friends home first, and I don’t want you telling her why you weren’t at home.”

He resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall. “Fine,” he said, grudgingly.

“Which hospital?”

“Royal Marsden.”

She huffed, derisively. “The one in Kensington? Your friend must be rich. Can’t _he_ give you the money?”

“ _He’s_ currently in intensive care,” he spat back. “You know what? Never mind. I don’t need this sort of abuse. I’ll phone someone from work.” He ended the call before she could reply—and before he told her exactly what he thought of her and her bigoted attitude. No point in pouring petrol on the fire.

He went to phone Sally—and realised he didn’t know her number; she was just another name on his contact list.

_Bloody hell._

Gritting his teeth, he rang Sherlock. Mercifully, he picked up.

“Yeah, Sherlock? It’s Greg.”

“Who?”

“Lestrade, you prat. And that was only funny the first few times.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“Look, I hate to do this, but I need a favour. I don’t have any cash and the banks won’t be open ‘til tomorrow. I need to get home and get a locksmith.”

“Can’t you use a card?”

“Um, no, for the same reason I don’t have cash or house keys—or clothes, for that matter, but they’ve given me scrubs to wear.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“What’s going on?” John asked in the background.

“Greg needs money to get home,” Sherlock told him.

“Oh God, I never thought of that. Tell him we’ll be right there.”

“We’ll be right there.”

“Thanks.”

They showed up about twenty minutes later in a taxi. Sherlock leaned out of the car just enough to shout, “Come on!”

Greg hurried over, chilly in the thin scrubs and flip-flops the hospital had given him. “I can get the tube.”

“Don’t be silly. John says we’re taking you to your flat. Besides, you look ridiculous.”

Greg pointedly ignored the remark and got in. “Thanks, mate,” he said as he sat down across from John, making a mental note to buy him a couple pints the next time they were at a pub. He gave the driver his address and they headed towards his flat.

John tugged off his parka and gave it to him. “You must be frozen. Put this on.”

“Yeah, I am. Thanks.” He sighed as the still-warm sleeves slid over his frozen arms. “Oh, that’s much better. Appreciate it.”

“The last thing you need is a cold,” John said.

Sherlock tapped away on his phone, seemingly oblivious to them both. He dialled a number. “You do emergency service, correct? Good.” He gave them Greg’s address.

“Locksmith?”

“Yes, they’ll be there in twenty minutes, which means we shouldn’t have to wait more than ten.”

Greg laughed. “Hope springs eternal. Thanks.”

When they got to the quiet road in Holland Park, Sherlock looked mildly impressed. “Not what I expected.”

“Which was?”

“Something more—” he paused, searching for a word, “—squalid.”

“Sherlock!” John said, horrified. “Jesus.”

Greg couldn’t tell whether Sherlock was trying to wind him up or just being Sherlock.

John turned to him and said, “Sorry.”

Greg shrugged. He’d been through enough in the past twenty-four hours that a little rudeness paled in comparison.

Sherlock counted out some bills from his wallet. “This should do.”

“We’re not just going to leave him,” John said. “What if the bloke doesn’t show up?”

“I suppose he could come back to ours,” Sherlock said grudgingly. “We do have the spare room now.”

“That’s not the point! It’s freezing out and he needs the rest. He shouldn’t be running around London in scrubs and flip-flops.”

“Well then we should have gone home to start with.”

“I still need to get into my flat at some point,” Greg said, motioning towards his clothes. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer.”

“Oh, right,” said John. “I’ll stay with him until the locksmith finishes. The tube’s close by, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, just round the corner.”

“Great. You take the cab home and I’ll meet you there. Shouldn’t be long.”

Sherlock looked disconcerted but nodded. As Greg got out of the taxi, Sherlock grabbed his wrist. “Thank you for helping Mycroft.”

“Glad I could,” he replied.

As the taxi sped off, they went inside to wait for the locksmith.

Ten minutes inevitably dragged into half an hour. After about five minutes, they’d given up standing around and sat in the hallway outside of his door. Greg leaned his head back, exhausted, and idly stared at the ceiling.

John broke the silence. “So…”

Greg turned to face him. “Hm?”

“You and Mycroft?”

“Seems that way. Early days, obviously.”

“Didn’t see that coming. We were surprised when he came to us for advice—never had a clue it’d be you.”

Greg shrugged, not entirely at ease with the conversation. All he could think about was Mycroft lying in his hospital bed, looking so terribly frail.

“Didn’t even know you were looking,” John continued, pressing the issue.

“I wasn’t.” He broke eye contact and tipped his head back against the wall.

“Oh.” John looked around awkwardly. “I get the impression you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I’m not trying to be rude, but right now I’m more worried about him recovering than anything.” Then, aware he sounded angry, he tried to tone his voice down a bit. “I hope it works out, but who knows after last night?”

“Yeah, s’pose so. Sorry. Sherlock’s been going on about you two since the running thing. Won’t shut up.”

“What does he care? Thought he couldn’t stand him.”

“I think he’s worried you’ll stop working with him.”

“Bloody typical. Not everything is about him, you know.”

John gave a short laugh. “Don’t tell him that. Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“S’fine; thanks for staying. Hope this bloke shows up soon; I’m dying for a shower.”

“I’d be dying for some sleep if I were you.”

Greg gave a short laugh. “Yeah, that too. I’ll get some later.”

“Why not now?”

“If I lie down, I might not get back up. I’m going back before visiting hours end.”

“Oh,” John said, looking sheepish. “He should be all right, you know—long term—as long as he doesn’t get an infection while he’s healing.”

“Well that’s good.”

“The first twenty-four hours are the most critical for smoke inhalation. You probably saved his life.”

“Thank God for that,” Greg said, feeling sick as he pondered the alternative.

The locksmith finally showed up, and an hour later Greg was showered and on his way back to the hospital.

* * *

Mycroft had never been particularly closeted, but he wasn’t exactly ‘out’, either. Until the last couple of days, he hadn’t _had_ a sex life in years, so he’d never really thought about it.

Not until his parents walked through the hospital room door.

And then he inexplicably felt like a seventeen year old who’d just been caught kissing a boy in his bedroom.

He decided to keep his mouth shut for now—there was plenty of fuss and drama without bringing up awkward details. Besides, he still didn’t know how Greg felt about everything; he certainly didn’t want to introduce him as his new boyfriend without even asking him first. After all, they’d only spent one _(disastrous)_ night together.

Which was all well and good until the doctor visited and, as he was about to leave, mentioned offhandedly ‘how lucky Mycroft’s husband’ had been.

Mouths dropped open—Mummy’s, Father’s, and his own—and the doctor sensed he’d said something horribly wrong.

“Right. Well. Other patients to see. I’ll be back tomorrow morning and see how you’re doing.” And he was gone, closing the door behind him.

His parents turned to face him. After a few long _(interminable)_ seconds of silence, Mummy blinked and said in a strained voice, “Is there something you’d like to tell us, dear?”

At least they already knew he was gay. He sighed and said, “It’s really not what you think.”

“And what, exactly, are we supposed to think?” She sounded cross.

He really didn’t want to have a conversation about Greg, but there was no avoiding it now. “I’m not married. The man he mentioned is a friend of mine who was spending the night. When they brought us both to the hospital, he told them he was my husband so they’d let him visit me.”

There was another pause. His father smiled. Mummy frowned. “Well, that’s actually quite lovely,” she said. “I’m not sure why we’d be upset about that.”

“Nor am I,” Mycroft replied.

“I thought you’d gone off and got married without telling us.”

“If I ever decide to jump off that particular bridge, I shall certainly inform you.”

“Well, tell us about him. Who is he? How long have you known him?”

“His name is Greg, I’ve known him for some time, and my throat is _very_ sore—so if you could postpone the interrogation for a day or two, I’d really appreciate it.”

‘Some time’ seemed sufficiently vague. Besides, it felt like he’d known him for ages.

“Of course, dear. Can I rearrange those pillows for you?”

Mycroft was about to answer when there was a knock at the door. Sherlock would have barged in, which meant it was a nurse or— _damn. Impeccable timing._ “Come in.”

Greg walked in with a vase full of flowers and a huge smile—and promptly froze when he noticed Mycroft’s parents. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t know you had visitors—I’ll come back.”

“No, no, don’t mind us,” his mother said.

“These are my parents, Violet and Siger. This is Greg Lestrade.”

Greg smiled, hastily put the flowers on the bedside table, and shook their hands. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Mycroft tells us you two ran off and got married,” she said teasingly. Greg looked at her, mortified.

Mycroft gave Greg an apologetic look and sighed. “Mummy, please. I’ve already explained the situation; don’t embarrass him.” Then he added, “And it wasn’t me who said it, it was the doctor. Now if you don’t mind, my throat is very sore from all this talking. Perhaps you’d like to go down and get yourselves some tea and let me get some rest.” He hoped they’d take the hint.

His mother rolled her eyes. “Come along, Siger, we’re being hurried out. We’ll be back in a while, love.”

Mycroft smiled and nodded, then sighed with relief as the door closed behind them.

“Sorry about the timing. I’ll come back tomorrow, yeah?” He gave Mycroft a half-hearted smile.

Mycroft shook his head. His parents were out the door, but not out of hearing range. He gave it a few seconds and said, “No, please stay. I wanted to get rid of _them_ , not you.”

Greg’s dazzling smile returned. “Thanks. I thought you were upset about the husband thing.”

“The doctor mentioned ‘my husband’ while they were here, and you can imagine how it went over.”

“No,” Greg said, hesitantly, “I really can’t. Was it that bad?”

“Not at all—my mother thought she’d been snubbed for the wedding, but when I explained, she found the whole thing very endearing. Now they want to know everything about you.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“Yes, I can’t say I was overly keen on an interrogation at the moment, which is why I tried to usher them out.”

“And how is your throat feeling?”

“Very sore, but not too sore to talk to _you_. Can I have a kiss?”

“Of course,” Greg said, avoiding the various tubes to give him a gentle, reassuring kiss. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is to see you awake again. They didn’t know when you’d regain consciousness—they just kept saying you were ‘stable’. It was terrifying.”

“How did it happen? Do you know?”

“Nobody’s told you anything?”

“Not yet.”

“I think the fire started next door.” He paused, looking uncomfortable. “I haven’t been back there yet, but I should warn you—I don’t think there’s going to be anything left. I’m sorry.”

Mycroft frowned and bit his lip as he took mental inventory of what he’d lost. _Things_ , mostly. Some artwork. Books. More disturbing was the logistical nightmare the fire left in its wake: rebuilding, finding new lodgings, buying new clothes, furniture, decorating. _Tedious beyond belief._

“You okay?” Greg asked.

Mycroft looked up. “What? Oh, I’ll be fine. It’s just so irritating, the logistics of it all.”

“That wouldn’t be my reaction. What about the stuff you can’t replace?”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know—childhood pictures, that sort of thing. I still have my football jersey from when I played in my twenties. It’s not worth anything, but it means a lot to me.”

“I really didn’t keep anything like that there—it’s all still at home. The place where I grew up, I mean. I used to go there on weekends. The flat is just… where I sleep. Slept.” A thought struck him. “I’ll replace your DVD, of course.”

He laughed, incredulously. “You’re joking.”

“Of course not. Why?”

Greg shook his head and smiled. “I don’t understand how you think. Look at it this way: it’ll give us a chance to go back to that running shop and buy you more shoes. Try and get away with more in the changing room this time.”

Mycroft’s face fell. “Oh. I suppose you won’t be giving me that running lesson today.”

Greg winced. “Sorry. Not for a while, probably.”

“That’s all right. It’ll give me something to work towards. The doctor said I’ll have to work on healing my lungs for a while.”

“Ow. Sounds painful.”

“He also said it could have been far worse, and that I’m lucky to be in such good shape. What happened? I don’t remember any of it.”

Greg shifted his stance nervously. “There’s not much to tell. I woke up when the fire alarm when off. There was already smoke in the bedroom.”

“Christ.”

“I tried to wake you up but you were unconscious, so I dragged you out of there. They brought you here by ambulance.”

A slow smile crept across Mycroft’s face. “So you pulled me from a burning building and saved my life.”

Greg _actually_ blushed. “No. Not really.” He shifted his weight to the other foot. “Anyone would have done it.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. “That has to rank as the most heroic first date in history. Second date, I mean. Of course, on our first date, you saved me from splashing scalding tea all over myself, so you’ve really upped the ante for our third date. You’ll have to save an orphanage full of kittens or something.” He frowned. “Dear Lord, I should really just shut up. I think the pain medication is making me loopy.”

Greg grinned. “It’s very entertaining. Oh, before I forget—” He handed him John’s phone. “I know you’re not supposed to talk too much, but perhaps you can get one of your minions to bring you a laptop or something. I expect you’ll go up the wall without something to do all day. I know I would.”

Mycroft smiled. “Thank you.”

“I’ll come by again tomorrow, yeah?”

“I’d love to see you. Do you have a new phone yet? I can let you know when you won’t be interrogated by my parents. I imagine they’ll be in and out.”

Greg waved it off. “I’ll pick up a new one tomorrow, and I’m fine with an interrogation if I’m expecting it. Tell me if there’s anything I can sneak in for you.”

“I will. Thank you for the flowers. They’re gorgeous.”

“Thank the people at the gift shop. I’m not very good with this sort of thing.”

Mycroft shrugged and smiled. “Who is?”

“You, probably—but I won’t hold it against you.” He leaned in and kissed him again, then squeezed his shoulder. “God, I’m so glad you’re all right. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

Mycroft smiled and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains details of a house fire, hospitalisation, and homophobia.


	5. Chapter 5

Consciousness crept in around the edges of Greg’s dreams at five the next morning, and the events of the previous day came back to him with sickening clarity.

_Mycroft._

It was too early to go to the hospital; visiting hours didn’t start until nine. Desperate to do _something_ , he went online and found the main number, then phoned them to get Mycroft’s status.

‘Stable and resting comfortably.’

Well, that was a start.

He wondered if they ever used the phrase ‘resting uncomfortably’.

He started going through his cabinets in search of some decent coffee. He was out. Again. He’d been going to Starbucks so often he hadn’t bothered to pick up any the last time he was at the shop. _Perhaps there’s some instant._ His stomach churned at the thought. He checked the fridge for milk—there’d have to be enough to mask the taste if he was going to subject himself to dehydrated coffee. Sugar, too. Reluctantly, he boiled the kettle and watched the dry crystals melt into a brown sludge as he poured the water over them.

He couldn’t face the thought of going to Starbucks. Everything there would remind him of Mycroft and their first date, of his amazing _(ridiculous)_ coffee machine and his ability to tame it, and worst of all, how Mycroft was stuck in the hospital and not at home in his lovely bed with the soft sheets.

Clearly, his brain was preoccupied with Mycroft regardless of the type of coffee or where he chose to drink it. He poured the foul-smelling concoction down the sink.

He needed a run. A long one. And then, perhaps, a decent cup of coffee.

Wandering back into his bedroom to get his kit, he remembered he’d taken it to Mycroft’s on Saturday. His trainers were gone, burned into a petrochemical puddle. He sat on the edge of his bed, holding his head in his hands. He wanted to crawl back under the covers and forget it all—perhaps wake up around eight and give the day another go then—but the run would do him good, and he had an old pair of trainers somewhere.

He found them under a pile of clothes he’d been meaning to donate. No wonder he’d bought new ones—they were packed out and smelled horrendous—but they’d be better than nothing, and better than going back to bed, feeling sorry for himself.

As soon as his feet hit the pavement, he started to feel better. The regular cadence soothed his nerves and he tried to focus on the run.

 _It’s almost light out._ Soon it would be summer, and nothing beat an early-morning run in the post-dawn golden light. _Maybe Mycroft will be running with me by then._ He was trying to avoid thinking about him, but it wasn’t working. _It’s not a case of ‘maybe’—he will be running with me. He’ll recover. We’ll still be together._ He increased his pace, pushing negative thoughts of damaged lungs and failed relationships to the side as the closed shop fronts slid quietly by.

He went on one of his long loops, the one that took him through Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park, away from what little traffic there was at that time of morning. He wouldn’t do Mycroft any good if he ended up on the hood of some idiot’s car.

The entire way, he debated whether or not he should visit the burned-out flat. He really didn’t want to see it, but he felt like he should know just how bad the damage was. Mycroft was bound to ask at some point. Reluctantly, he headed down to Cromwell Road. When he saw Mycroft’s townhouse, he immediately wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t good. Both flats would have to be gutted, if not rebuilt completely.

He didn’t understand how Mycroft could compartmentalise his life; if this had happened to him, he’d be devastated. Was Mycroft really that unsentimental? Greg hoped it didn’t translate into emotional distance regarding people. If it did, the long-term prospects for their relationship weren’t good. So far he’d seemed fine, but one date wasn’t much to go on.

Heaving a sigh, he started running home, glancing back a few times to look at the house. The road was getting more crowded as people headed to work, and he dodged a few early-morning dog walkers. He smiled and nodded to each one as each one passed, something he always did. Most times he’d get a friendly smile in return, and he liked to think that even those who didn’t make eye contact might feel better for it. At the moment, he felt like scowling and cursing at the world in general, so it was even more important that he make the effort. He’d seen it too many times at work—negativity breeding negativity.

He couldn’t do that to Mycroft.

He needed to ignore his fears—about Mycroft’s health, about their budding relationship—and be a strong, positive presence. No matter how self-reliant Mycroft might be, he’d need the support. If nothing else, he’d need someone to vent to about his mother’s incessant fussing.

Which was why it was vitally important that he not walk in there looking glum, no matter how awful the sight of the flat had been.

He’d wanted to get Mycroft a present the night before, but by the time he’d got home it was gone six and almost everything was shut on a Sunday. Not that it mattered—he didn’t have any money other than what Sherlock had given him and a few quid lying around the flat. He wouldn’t be able to access the rest of it until the bank opened on Monday, when he could get his credit and debit cards replaced. He tried to pinpoint when his life had become so plastic-driven; he never carried much cash, but God help you if you lost those cards.

He was determined to find something this morning, even if his options were limited to the corner shop and the hospital gift shop—the only things convenient and open before nine. The corner shop didn’t have anything of interest, unless you considered random snacks and magazines to be appropriate get-well presents—and the people who did were probably the same ones who bought half-dead flowers from the petrol station on Mother’s Day.

Which left the hospital gift shop. And, since it was in a posh area of London, a surprisingly good hospital gift shop.

They had the standard array of flower arrangements, balloons, and cards, and a rather bewildering selection of women’s accessories. Why anyone would want a silk scarf in hospital was beyond him. No different than buying Mycroft a pair of ‘get-well cufflinks’, he supposed. Not what he had in mind. Not surprisingly, they didn’t carry cufflinks anyway. He went over to the children’s section to a display of stuffed animals of every shape and size. He decided the pink teddy bear was out. _(In more ways than one.)_ Most of them were animals, but some of them were unidentifiable—anthropomorphic blobs and strange things that seemed culled from children’s television.

He picked one of them up, a pear-shaped grey one with a tummy full of white fur and a dazzling smile that made it look like it’d just had its dental checkup. It had stubby little arms and a tail, and diamond-shaped ears that poked up from its head. The wide-open dots of its eyes suggested either permanent glee or a sugar high.

The dark grey fur reminded him of Mycroft’s suits.

“Excuse me,” he asked the girl working there. “Is this supposed to be… something?”

“Oh, that’s Totoro.”

“Toe-what?”

“Totoro. It’s from anime.”

 _Anime._ He wasn’t sure if it was a programme or a genre. “Oh, ‘course,” he said, as if he knew exactly what she was on about.

“For your kid?”

Greg looked sheepish. “Um, no.”

She looked down, embarrassed. “Oh, sorry. Well, I’m sure they’ll like it. Want a gift bag?”

“Nah, I’ll just carry it.”

* * *

Mycroft hadn’t expected Greg until after work, or lunchtime at the earliest, but he was there as soon as visiting hours started at nine.

“Morning, gorgeous. How’re you feeling?”

Greg’s cheery tone made him instantly smile and forget where he was. To be honest, he felt exhausted and wrung-out. His sleep had been interrupted every two hours by the nurse, and when he had slept, it had been plagued with nightmares. “Better than I was, thanks,” he replied. It wasn’t a total lie. He felt better with Greg in the room.

“Glad to hear it. Hey, I brought you a present.”

“Oh?”

Greg took _something_ from behind his back and held it out. “Like it?”

Mycroft started to laugh, but stopped when it made his throat hurt. He settled for an amused grin. “What… _is_ it?”

“It’s a toe-something or other.”

“Sorry?”

“Um… Totoro, I think. The shop assistant said it was an anime thing.”

“What’s anime?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“That makes two of us.”

“He reminded me of you—well, one of your suits, anyway—you know, if you imagine the grey fur is the jacket and the white is the shirt. Yours are much better tailored, though. And less furry. And he’s cute but you’ve got ‘sexy’ going for you as well.”

Mycroft listened with a grin as he took the toy from Greg and examined it.

“Of course, you don’t have the pointy ears or the tail,” Greg said. Then, giving him a thoughtful look, he added, “although your eyes are doing the same sort of stare-y thing right now. Anyway, I thought it was the sort of serious, refined stuffed animal that would lend this room the dignity it deserves.”

Despite knowing it would hurt his throat, Mycroft laughed quietly.

“Or, I could take it back and get you some more flowers. Or balloons.” The flowers from the previous day sat on the bedside table, looking about as interesting as hospital flowers could.

“No, it’s wonderful. It’s perfect.” It was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen and he loved it. “I don’t think I’ve ever owned a stuffed animal before.”

“Not even when you were a kid?”

“I’m not sure.” He frowned, trying to remember. “I don’t think so—certainly not since I was old enough to remember something like that.” He had vague memories of a blanket he’d dragged around for a while—proof of it lay in one of his mother’s photo albums, much to his dismay—but he wasn’t about to share that with Greg.

“Well, then. Welcome to your second childhood. You really like it?”

“I do, thank you,” he said, smiling. He perched it next to him on the pillow, partially to give Greg a laugh, but also because he wanted it close. Something about the soft fur was oddly soothing.

“They letting you eat yet?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’d kill for some scrambled eggs. Unfortunately, they’re sticking a tube down my throat for a procedure in a few hours, so I can’t have anything until after that.”

Greg wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, sorry. Do you want me to stick around? I hate coming out of anaesthesia.”

“Really? I’ve only ever had local.”

“I don’t know; I always feel like I have to fight my way back.”

The phrase triggered a memory—of a cave closing in on him and of not being able to breathe. He felt sick.

“My God, are you okay?” Greg asked, looking alarmed.

“I’m fine,” he lied. There was nothing _wrong_ , it was just disturbing.

“All the colour just left your face. Should I get the nurse?”

“No. I was reminded of… I’m not sure. I think it was the nightmare I had during the fire.”

“Yeah?”

“I was stuck in a cave and it got hard to breathe, so I gave up and went to sleep. That’s probably when I lost consciousness.” He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the memory. “I should imagine going under anaesthesia will be similar.”

“God, that’s awful.” Greg said. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t know what I was thinking.”

Mycroft gave him a weak smile. “It’s not your fault. I was going to remember it sometime; I’d rather it be now than later.”

“For what it’s worth, it’s easy when they put you under. You’re just out; nothing like your nightmare. Do you want me to stay for the procedure? I will.”

“No, but thank you. My parents are coming by later, and I’m sure there’ll be enough fussing for the entire ward.” He smiled. “My mother will probably drive the nurses insane.”

Greg chuckled.

“Anything exciting on at work today?”

He checked his phone. “Well, no murders yet, touch wood. I have a meeting this afternoon. I’ll come by after work if that’s okay?”

“That’d be lovely. My parents might still be here, but they’re mostly harmless.”

“Is there an alibi I should corroborate?”

Mycroft smirked. “We’ve known each other for ‘some time’. I think meeting through Sherlock’s work would be less incriminating than tales of spandex and intrigue.”

“And it’s plausible. No one would believe the running story anyway.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Very true.”

“Right, well, see you tonight then. Let me know if there’s anything I can bring by.”

“Thanks,” he said with a smile. “Maybe I’ll be back on solid food by then.”

“Just say the word and I’ll sneak it in. Good luck with the scope thing. I’m sure it’ll go fine.”

Mycroft squeezed his hand in thanks and Greg leaned in to give him a kiss.

As Greg left, Mycroft picked up the Totoro and idly smoothed its fur as he considered his upcoming procedure. _A necessary inconvenience. Complications unlikely._ He appreciated Greg’s warning about the anaesthesia; very few things bothered him, but a lack of control was one of them.

He looked down at the stuffed animal and smiled; no one else would have bought him this, not even his parents. They all ‘knew him far too well’—knew he was much too serious to enjoy a child’s toy. But that was the thing—by bringing it, Greg had brought humour and joy into this miserable place and it had given him exactly the sort of comfort he needed at the moment.

Thinking how lucky he was to have found him, he drifted off to sleep—one hand still on the animal’s soft fur.

* * *

Greg stopped by the bank on the way in to work, hoping to get his cards replaced. He left, irritated, with some emergency cash and copies of the paperwork they promised would ‘only take a few days to process’. Thankfully the Yard was far more efficient about getting him a replacement warrant card. As maddening as it was, his driver’s licence would have to wait until he had enough time to brave the inevitable lines. Sally always complained that she never got to drive; he’d let her take advantage of that for a bit.

Throughout the day, as he did his paperwork and attended meetings, he had random flashbacks to the fire—smoke in the room; dragging Mycroft down the stairs; seeing his unconscious body strapped to the gurney. Each one left him feeling sick and unsettled and he had to physically shake them off. He reassured himself that Mycroft was fine and tried to concentrate on his work.

He ran into Sally in the hallway.

“Did you have a good weekend?” she asked with a knowing smile. 

He glowered at her, not that she deserved it, and dragged her into his office. He told her what had happened, and she was mortified.

“Christ. Are you okay? Is he? I heard about the fire in the news. They didn’t say it was him.”

Greg gave a short laugh as he thought about how well Mycroft protected his privacy. “They probably won’t. He’ll be in the hospital for a while, and I’m going to be in and out of the office all week visiting him and getting things sorted.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Just go easy if I’m distracted, all right? And try and do damage control if any rumours come up.”

“Sure. Anything I can do?”

“Can’t think of anything, but I’ll let you know. Thanks.”

A few people knew about the fire through press reports, but no one made the connection to him or ‘Sherlock’s brother’. Later that afternoon, he got a phone call that someone needed to see him downstairs. “Who is it?”

“Said her name’s ‘Anthea’. Didn’t give a last name.”

“I’m a bit busy; can you send her up?”

“She insists on meeting you down here, sir.”

He frowned, wondering who it could be. He didn’t know anyone by that name. “All right, I’ll be down in a sec.”

He didn’t recognise her by sight. She gave him a lethal smile and introduced herself. “I’m Anthea. Mr Holmes’ personal assistant.”

“Oh. Um, I’m Greg Lestrade.”

“I know.”

Greg cringed. She’d been taking lessons from the same Charm School as Sherlock.

“Mr Holmes thought you’d find these useful.”

He took the padded envelope she offered and opened it, finding replacements for almost everything that had been in his wallet—credit cards, driver’s licence, even his Oyster card for the tube. And a new phone.

“The phone number is the same and you won’t be needing the other paperwork from the bank.”

Greg gaped at the cards that would have taken days to replace. “Do I even want to know how—”

“Probably not, sir,” she said, smiling. “He said it was the least he could do.”

He looked back up at her, unsure of how to respond. “Well, thank you. This is—” he grasped for words, “—very helpful.”

She handed him a business card. “Don’t hesitate to contact me if you need anything else.”

With that, she turned and left, leaving him to call “Um, thanks,” to her as she walked out the door. He shook his head and headed back to his office, unsure if he should be grateful or creeped out, and feeling a little of both.

* * *

Greg had been right about the miseries of anaesthesia. He’d been dragged back to consciousness feeling sick and confused, unable to exert any control over his mind or body. By the time they took him back to his room, he felt almost human, relatively speaking. His parents, waiting anxiously in their plastic guest chairs, leapt to their feet as he was wheeled in.

“Oh, Mikey, we were so worried. It took longer than they expected it to. Did they tell you anything yet? No one has told us anything. We’ll have to find the doctor and see—”

She probably would have gone on all day if he hadn’t given her an exhausted, pained look. “Patience,” he whispered, wincing at his sore throat.

“I’m sorry, dear. Is there anything I can get you?”

“Ice lolly.” The look of surprise on her face almost made him laugh. He was half-joking; he just wanted something cool and soothing for his throat. He never dreamed the hospital would have them.

She came back with a cherry-flavoured one—apparently they were a common request from patients who’d undergone his procedure. “The nurse said you can have as many as you want. They’re in a fridge down the hall.”

The cool sweetness hit his tongue and sent a wave of relief down his throat. Halfway through it _(lick, suck, never bite)_ the phallic implications dawned on him. He smirked. Thankfully, the parallels hadn’t occurred to his parents, or if they had, they were nice enough not to say anything.

His mother went on about random topics, flitting from one thing to the next in a constant stream of chatter. He let her, nodding when appropriate, grateful he didn’t have to actively participate. His father chimed in occasionally but mostly let her natter on.

The doctor came in, looking grim. His parents went quiet, and Mycroft’s polite smile of interest fell away.

After the mandatory pleasantries, he said, “I’m afraid there’s a bit of bad news from the endoscopy. The tissue damage is more severe than we’d thought, and we’re going to have to keep you for at least a couple of weeks while it heals.”

Mycroft’s heart sank and he irrationally wished he’d never had the procedure, as if that would have prevented the outcome.

“I can’t spend that much time away from work.”

“Come, now; everyone likes to think they’re indispensable, but nobody’s really that important.”

Mycroft mentally ran through his schedule for the upcoming three days. It was packed with things only a few people had clearance for, and that didn’t include managing the world crises that inevitably arose. “Are you _very_ sure it has to be that long? Perhaps I could recuperate at home?” He had the secure technology in place that gave him access to his work computers and telecommunications systems.

His mother gave a small, polite cough.

 _Oh._ ‘Home’ was gone. “Right,” he said with a resigned sigh. He shouldn’t have felt embarrassed about forgetting about the fire, but he did.

“Perhaps you could find another flat,” his mother suggested.

“It wouldn’t be configured for work. It’s complicated.”

The doctor interrupted. “It’s a moot point, because you’re not leaving until you’re significantly better.” Mycroft glowered at him. “I’m sorry,” he added, hastily. He spouted details of the results and the proposed treatment plans at them for the next few minutes and Mycroft mentally filed them away for later.

He’d research it before he blindly agreed to anything. He didn’t have a degree in medicine, but he was intelligent enough to make his way through the relevant medical texts; he wanted to fully understand his situation and treatment options. He might even run it by John; he’d be unlikely to know anything about the specifics of his treatment, but it would be a nice gesture to include him.

After the doctor left, his parents were silent, his mother’s earlier upbeat chattiness gone.

“It’s not a death sentence, Mummy.”

“I know, dear, but we were hoping you’d be out of here sooner.”

“He doesn’t have the last word on everything.” His throat hurt and he didn’t want to have an extended conversation about it, but just to make his point clear, he added, “There’s always private health care. What about the house? I could recuperate there.”

The house—their family home—was set up with the necessary security protocols that allowed him access to the classified networks. He’d put them in place ages ago so he could work there on weekends.

His mother looked thoughtful. “I don’t see why not. There’s a minimal staff there at the moment, but we could always change that. Your father and I could move back there and take care of you.”

 _Oh God, no._ That wasn’t where he’d wanted the discussion to go. Not at all. Multiple conversations played out in his head as he tried to salvage the situation. All the responses he could think of—‘I’d never impose on you like that’; ‘You shouldn’t leave your own house’; ‘You’ve never liked it there’—would all be countered with, ‘Oh, but we’d do it for _you_ , dear.’ There were two choices: he could stay in the hospital or tell them the truth—that they’d drive him mad if they were all under the same roof for more than two days. Both actions sounded equally horrible.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Mummy, but I think I’d recuperate better by myself. It would be less stressful for everyone involved.” She gave him a hurt look, but he held fast. Mostly. “Perhaps you could visit once or twice, but you know how it gets at Christmas with all of us under the same roof.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father nod in agreement.

“Well, I suppose the doctor hasn’t approved it yet anyway. We’ll wait and see.”

Those weren’t the words of someone who’d capitulated. Inwardly, he cringed; he could handle world negotiations but he couldn’t win arguments with his mother.

He could arrange to have a place set up in London that would meet the security protocols, but it would take time, and he’d be stuck in the hospital until it was finished. Besides, he _liked_ the house; it was big enough that he could have a live-in nurse if he needed one and he could escape the filthy air of London. He decided to drop the issue for the time being. It wasn’t worth arguing with her if she’d made up her mind, especially not while he was exhausted. He smiled obligingly and relaxed back against the pillows, giving in. She recognised his surrender and changed the subject.

“What on earth is this?” she said, picking up the stuffed toy from the side table. “Did Sherlock bring it by?”

Mycroft laughed, but it came out more like a rasping cough. “As far as I know, he’s still not prone to outbursts of thoughtfulness. Greg got it for me.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. He seems very nice; I do wish you’d tell us more about him.”

He felt like saying, ‘I barely know him, but he looks great in running tights and we have amazing sex.’ That would shut her up. But in the interest of family harmony, he said, “He’s a Detective Inspector with the Met. Sherlock consults for him.”

A look of recognition lit up her face. “Of course! I knew I’d heard the name somewhere before. Is that how you met?”

 _In person for the first time? Technically, yes._ He gave a non-committal hum of agreement. He had to lie professionally sometimes, but he didn’t lie to his mother. This was more like ‘bending the truth’. He made a mental note to text Sherlock as soon as they left and bribe him to corroborate their cover story. “Could you help me sit up a little more? Perhaps another pillow or something.”

By the time they’d finished shifting him in the bed, he was exhausted. It frustrated him to be tired out by something so trivial.

“Do you want us to leave so you can get some rest, dear?”

It sounded like a fantastic idea. Now that she’d mentioned it, he could think of nothing better than the prospect of a nap. “Might be for the best. Long day.”

“Of course. We’ll stop in later tonight, all right?”

He nodded. “Thanks for coming by.” He’d dozed off even before they gathered up their things and left the room.

* * *

Greg knocked softly on the closed door to Mycroft’s room. When there was no answer, he flagged down one of the nurses.

“Do you know if he’s asleep?”

She shrugged and continued down the hallway.

He opened it and peered inside. Mycroft was out like a light, snoring in a way that could only be described as ‘dainty’. He smirked, sorely tempted to reach for his phone and take a quick video, but Mycroft would probably burn his phone if he found out. _(Not ‘if’—‘when’.)_ Still, it was lovely to see the British Government snoring, even if he couldn’t get proof. He was glad to see him getting the rest he needed.

He sat in one of the visitor’s chairs and took out his new phone, scanning it for work email and generally screwing around with the new features until he got bored. Then he took out his book—one of those popular thrillers advertised in bookshop windows—and started reading.

He made it through three chapters and part of a fourth before Mycroft woke up. Greg looked up as he heard him shift in the bed.

“Hey, gorgeous. How’re you feeling?”

Mycroft smiled at him, looking exhausted. “All right,” he replied, his rough voice barely more than a whisper.

“Liar,” Greg said, but not seriously. “Can I get you anything?”

“Water?”

He passed him the huge plastic mug sitting on the bedside table and Mycroft took sips through the straw.

“That’s better. I must have been breathing with my mouth open.”

Greg just smiled; some things were better left unsaid. “How’d the procedure go?”

Mycroft winced.

“Oh, sorry. Did they get the results yet?”

“Mm. Nothing good. It’s worse than they thought and they want to keep me here for ‘a couple of weeks’.”

“Fuck,” Greg muttered.

“God knows how they define that; they were terribly vague.”

“God, I’m sorry. That’s awful.” From what he knew of Mycroft, two weeks in a hospital bed would kill him. If his mind was anything like Sherlock’s, he’d be crawling the walls with boredom.

“I’m not giving up without a fight. I can’t work from here, so I’ll recuperate somewhere I can.”

“They’ll let you do that?”

Mycroft smiled and said, “Some rules are arbitrary and need to be challenged.”

Greg got the sense that the hospital didn’t know who they were dealing with. Yet. “You have to rest up though; you can’t put your health at risk just for the sake of work.”

Mycroft gave him a long-suffering look. “Once I get out of this sterile prison, I can do both.”

“Work _and_ put your health at risk, you mean?” he said, joking.

Mycroft conceded with a grin. “Don’t be difficult.”

“It’s what I do best. Ask Sherlock.”

“I hope Sherlock doesn’t know what you do best,” he said, lacing the words with mild innuendo.

Greg chuckled. “So how do you plan on breaking out of here?”

“The house—”

“House?” Greg interrupted, hoping he didn’t mean the flat.

“My family house, where I grew up.”

“Ah. Is that where your parents live?”

“Oh, thank God, no,” Mycroft said, in a refreshing outburst of brutal honesty. “They moved somewhere smaller. No one lives there now.”

Greg frowned and looked at him sideways. “So… a deserted house?”

“We have a caretaker,” Mycroft said a little peevishly, and Greg smiled at how much he could sound like Sherlock. “Anyway, it’s set up for working remotely, and short of surgical procedures, there’s nothing private doctors can’t do there.”

“Where is it?”

“About 90 minutes down the M4, just into Wiltshire.”

“Sounds great.” Well, not _great_. Wiltshire was long commute from London, and there’d be no chance of seeing him during the week, but he wasn’t about to bring that up; it would be rude and inconsiderate, no matter what the emotions behind it.

“It’s not ideal. My mother is insisting they move back temporarily to ‘help me recover’. As if that would help—the stress would set me back weeks, I’m sure. Besides, she hates the place; says it’s too big and draughty.”

“Could you banish her to the servant’s quarters?” Greg joked.

“She’d still find me,” Mycroft said, without a trace of irony. “Besides, I don’t care what the circumstances are, I will never let it be said, ‘He moved back home to live with his mother.’ Not even if it’s only for two weeks.”

Greg made a face. “I see your point. Sherlock would never let you live it down.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Yes, well there’s that, too. Did you see him today?”

“No, sorry. I was in a meeting for part of the day and we don’t have any active cases with him at the moment.”

“Oh, right. How was it?”

“The meeting? Fine.” Greg cleared his throat. “I had another meeting, though—one I wasn’t expecting.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, someone—I think it was your PA—came by with new credit cards and a phone for me. I stopped by the bank this morning and they said it’d take days to process the paperwork. I’m not sure if I should be thankful or terrified that you managed it in a few hours.”

“Does that mean you’re not thankful?” Mycroft said, his voice light.

“Let me rephrase: I’m incredibly thankful, I’m just not sure if I should be terrified.”

“What’s the point of power if you can’t abuse it?” Mycroft said, smiling sweetly and blinking in a way that was both endearing and terrifying.

“I’m glad you’re on our side,” Greg muttered. “Thanks everso, though; saved me loads of time. The driver’s license, too. Don’t know how you managed it.”

“Not at all; thank you for saving my life.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, about that…”

“What?”

“Well, I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything. That’s not how these things work.”

“Of course not. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, no—it’s fine. Just… it’s okay, yeah? I don’t want it to be a ‘thing’ between us.”

“Of course.”

“And the cards?”

“Merely exploiting my ridiculous power; no reason for you to suffer needlessly.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“I suppose I should cancel the bid on the new flat I was going to get you.”

Greg wasn’t sure how to respond. It sounded like a joke, but Mycroft had pots of money and rather vague concepts of social norms. “Okay?” he said, because he couldn’t think of a better answer.

“I’m joking,” Mycroft replied. “That would be outlandish, even for me. I’ve been told I have rather a dry sense of humour.”

“Oh, thank God,” Greg said with a relieved sigh.

“So… the same thing holds true for you, you know.”

“How so?”

“Don’t feel as if you have to keep this going just because of what happened or because I’m in the hospital. I’m still waiting for you to figure out I’m an insufferable prat.”

“Fair enough,” he said, giving Mycroft a fond smile.

* * *

They were back at the running shop, or perhaps they’d never left; it was confusing. Still, Greg was on his knees in front of him, checking the ‘fit’ of his running tights, and Mycroft wasn’t going to question the circumstances. This time there was no interfering shop assistant and Greg was doing a far more thorough check.

“They seem awfully tight,” Greg said, rubbing his hand along Mycroft’s cock. He ran his thumb across the head, clearly visible through the tight lycra.

Mycroft slumped against the wall for support, no longer trusting his legs. “Perhaps. You’re the expert,” he said, wondering where his voice had gone—off to join the air from his lungs, no doubt.

“We should try the next size. Here, let me get you off—I mean, get these off you.” He gave Mycroft an evil grin. “Because getting you off in a shop changing room would just be _wrong_ , wouldn’t it?”

“Terribly inappropriate. Inexcusable.” He fought to keep a straight face.

“Mm,” he agreed, sliding a hand between Mycroft’s skin and the tight lycra, “and it’s my job to uphold the law.” He wrapped his warm fingers around the length of his cock and gave it a teasing pull. “Lucky for me, the Sexual Offences Act doesn’t say anything about shop changing rooms—only public toilets.”

Mycroft gave a small sigh of pleasure as Greg kissed his neck and tightened the grip on his cock. “Their lack of imagination is our gain,” Mycroft said, as he put his hand on Greg’s arse and pulled him closer, angling for a proper kiss. When they pulled apart, Greg pulled the tights down over his hips and sucked in a quick breath as Mycroft’s erect cock sprang free.

“God, you’re sexy,” Greg said, his brown eyes gleaming. He dropped to his knees. “This okay?”

Mycroft nodded, unable to think of a better response.

He wrapped his lips around his cock and the heat of his mouth lit up the nerve endings of his skin. Mycroft’s fingernails scraped along the melamine walls of the cubicle divider as he struggled to find an outlet for his pleasure—something other than moaning, which would bring half the shop looking for the source of the noise.

Greg didn’t try and take too much of him—the sounds from that would have been just as damning—instead, he licked and sucked on the glans while using his fist to stroke him.

It had been years since he’d been with anyone and Greg was damned good at this. The public setting only added to the excitement and it was less than a minute before he felt the flickers of an impending orgasm.

And then his phone alarm went off.

Beeping. Far too loud. The shop assistant would hear. Greg pulled off him, looking up with panic, and they both muttered curses under their breath.

That wasn’t his alarm tone though, and why was it getting faster?

“Mr Holmes?”

Someone was shaking his shoulder, sounding panicked.

“Mr Holmes? Are you okay?”

 _Oh, God._ _Of course._ He was still in the hospital, his heart rate monitor beeping wildly. He quickly crooked one leg slightly, hoping to hide his erection from the night nurse standing next to the bed, looking alarmed.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Sorry, it was just a nightmare. It’s nothing.”

“You’re sure?”

“The fire—I’ve been having bad dreams.” _If I play the sympathy card, perhaps she’ll leave me alone._

“I’m so sorry. Of course.” The beeping of the heart rate monitor had already started to slow down. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No, I’ll be all right. I’ll just get back to sleep.”

“Of course,” she said, and left the room.

 _Damn. Damn it all to hell._ Even with the interruption, he was so hard his balls ached. His heart rate wasn’t completely back to normal yet—perhaps he could finish what his brain had started. He grabbed a few tissues from the box on the table and glanced at the half-open door. _Keep the heart-rate down and make it quick._ Closing his eyes, he returned to the vivid images of his dream, watching Greg on his knees in front of him, his skilful tongue working magic on his cock. His own fingers were a poor but adequate substitute, and it only took half a minute or so until he came in Greg’s mouth—or more accurately, onto his hand.

He noted, with some pride, that he’d kept his heart from racing and triggering another visit from the nurse. Diplomatic talks weren’t the only situation where ‘mind over body’ came in useful, but he’d never considered this application.

He cleaned himself up and binned the tissues, then crumpled a few more and threw them on top for good measure. With a contented sigh, he rearranged himself on the bed and settled into a better sleeping position. He drifted off to sleep thinking that hospital patients would be a lot happier if they were allowed orgasms every now and again.

* * *

That Wednesday, Mycroft did a deal with the devil: in exchange for his attendance at Christmas dinners for the next five years—non-negotiable, even in the event of a world crisis _(’You can deal with it from home, dear.’)_ —his mother agreed to let him recuperate at the house. Alone. In peace. As long as he phoned daily. He wasn’t going to get a better deal, so he took it.

It was another three days before he was healthy enough to leave.

His time in hospital wasn’t as bad as he’d feared it would be. It was hard to argue against the need for it—at first, he could barely do anything without needing a nap afterwards. He cursed the mental fog that prevented him from getting any work done. His voice still sounded like broken glass, but his throat kept improving and it no longer burned constantly.

The days dragged on, but he had plenty of company. His parents generally stayed almost all day, taking turns going to the canteen for cups of tea and chattering endlessly about the minutiae of their lives. For once, he’d been happy to listen; it passed the time. Greg showed up, without fail, before and after work. Each time, he brought some sort of distraction with him: magazines he thought he’d like; films he could watch on his computer; a book of ‘impossible’ crosswords that Mycroft completed in between (and sometimes during) conversations with his mother.

Once they put him back on regular food, Greg started bringing in things he couldn’t get on the hospital meal trays. Everything was so bland; he’d never been so glad to have a chicken curry in his life. The normally strict nurses looked the other way after Greg brought them a tin of fancy chocolate biscuits, and they were all charmed by his easy-going grin.

Every day, after his parents left for the evening, Greg would stay until they kicked him out. They’d chat about how Greg’s cases were going or how his new lab results looked. Mycroft would tell him he didn’t have to come every day, and Greg would smile and tell him not to be so stupid.

He started to get his energy back. When he made it through an entire day without dozing off, he decided it was time to stage a breakout. A sanctioned one. He’d made the arrangements for private medical care earlier in the week, and his doctor had reluctantly agreed that it wasn’t necessary for him to stay in the hospital as long as he rested and didn’t overdo it. He even acknowledged that the clean country air would be better for his lungs. The private doctor was fully briefed on Mycroft’s condition and would report back with ongoing test results. If all went well, there would be no need for any additional procedures.

He was so ready to leave, he could taste it.

* * *

On Friday evening, just after Greg had left for the night, Sherlock walked in without knocking. Mycroft wasn’t sure how he’d got in after visiting hours, and thought it was better for Sherlock’s ego if he didn’t ask.

“Mycroft,” he said by way of greeting, even favouring him with a smile. “Glad to see you back in the land of the living.”

“Sherlock. To what do I owe the pleasure?” It was only the second time Sherlock had come by. Hospital visits were apparently reserved for the direst of straits.

“Can’t I visit you without having my motives questioned? I wanted to see how you were.”

“That’s unlikely—you’ve been getting updates from Mummy. She told me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and plopped into the chair by the side of the bed. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“I nearly died in a house fire?” Mycroft answered, with only a hint of sarcasm.

“Don’t play coy with me. You know what I mean—this thing with Lestrade.”

“Ah. That. You’re a little late, aren’t you? I’d expected the inquisition days ago.”

“I was waiting to see if it stuck.”

Had it?He wasn’t sure. “I honestly couldn’t tell you. I’d like to think he’s still interested, but it’s entirely possible he’s just a good person. I know you like to think the worst of people, but they do exist.”

“He’s been here every day, morning and night; it seems like more than a sense of duty.”

“I hope it is.”

“So do I. Philip was a disaster, and I didn’t have to work with him afterwards.”

“Please don’t bring that up.”

“Why not? He devastated you. I don’t want it to happen again.”

“I don’t think Greg is likely to see someone else behind my back.”

“I’ll kill him if he does.”

“Your brotherly concern is reassuring, but I can handle this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat in silence for a few moments; Mycroft thought the conversation was over.

“I want you to be happy, you know,” Sherlock said, quietly.

“I know.”

“Greg’s a good man; I hope it works out between you.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, and gave him a tired smile. “So do I.”

“I can’t say I approve of the hasty marriage, though,” he said dryly. “Most impulsive thing you’ve ever done.”

“Technically, it was all his idea. I was unconscious at the time.”

“Mm, I hear all the best weddings happen that way.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Well, who knows? If things go really well, maybe we won’t have to get a divorce.”

Sherlock started digging through the charts hanging from the end of Mycroft’s bed. “How are you feeling? Mummy said the test results were bad.”

“Better now, thank you.”

“Have you been over these?” he said, nodding at the reports.

“Extensively. They appear to be ordering the right treatments. I should be off to the house tomorrow, thank God.”

“Oh?”

“They’re letting me recuperate out there. Private doctor.”

He gave Mycroft an approving look. “Money well spent.”

“Indeed.”

Sherlock paused for a moment then said, “Long way for Greg to visit.”

“A fact not lost on me.”

“Of course not. I have to get back; is there anything you need?”

“Try not to sabotage things with Greg the next time you have a case with him.”

Sherlock smiled. “I’ll try.”

* * *

He got a decent night’s sleep for a change, which was good; he needed the energy to deal with the unrelenting ‘helpfulness’ of his parents.

“Why don’t we drive you out there, dear? We won’t stay long, and you won’t have to arrange for a car.”

The last thing he needed was his father meandering down the M4 like it was a country lane.

“Thank you, but no. I’d like to get there quickly so I can settle in and get some rest. I’ve already arranged for a driver, and it’ll be more efficient for everyone involved. I promise I’ll let you know how I’m doing.”

“Perhaps we can visit during the week.”

Mycroft gave his mother a long-suffering smile. “Perhaps, yes. It’ll depend on my work schedule.”

“If you work too hard, you won’t get better.”

“I’m well aware of that. I promise I’ll be good.” Conversations with his mother made him feel like a ten-year-old.

Greg, standing in the corner, suppressed a grin.

“Well, do you have everything? What about all the paperwork?” His mother seemed determined to find something to keep him at the hospital longer—perhaps a subconscious attempt to prolong their time with him. Regardless, it was frustrating.

“The paperwork has been sent ahead, and Greg has all of my things.” They’d arranged that Greg would ride out to the house and help him get settled in. It would give them a chance to spend some peaceful time alone, away from nurses and beeping machines and the unrelenting tension common to all hospitals.

“Now,” he continued, “if you’d give me a few minutes, I’d like to get changed.” He refused to make the journey in pyjamas, not even the nice new ones from Greg he’d been wearing all week. He’d let his parents buy him a shirt and trousers for the trip. They weren’t in a style he would have chosen, but they wanted to help and it seemed to make them happy. They’d got shoes and socks, too, and even a pair of pants; vaguely humiliating, but it had to be done. He had plenty of other clothes at the house, even a few of his older suits. Perhaps he’d feel more like himself when he was wearing them again.

After some more fussing from his mother, he insisted it was time to leave. Greg pushed him down to the entrance in the hospital-mandated wheelchair—a ridiculous requirement, but a battle not worth fighting.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right, dear?”

Mycroft sighed. “I’ll be _fine_.”

“Thank you for doing this, Greg. We appreciate all your help.”

“Not at all, Mrs Holmes. Glad to.”

She’d taken to him immediately—he’d gone from ‘Mr Lestrade’ to ‘Greg’ by their second meeting. Greg normally charmed anyone within a two-room radius, but Mummy was rarely that quick to warm up to people. His father had liked him from the beginning, even with the marriage misunderstanding. While the circumstances had been dire, the fire had given them time to get to know him properly. If things did work out long-term, the inevitable Christmas dinners would be far more enjoyable.

Mycroft got into the car without any help, and Greg slid in beside him. You’d never know it from his mother’s incessant fussing, but he’d improved dramatically over the past few days.

“Phone me tonight, Mikey.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” he muttered under his breath, but didn’t correct her. “Yes, of course.”

Behind the privacy of the tinted glass windows, he tipped his head back and groaned in frustration. “I thought it would never end.”

“The hospital or the fussing?” Greg said.

“Both.”

Greg reached over and gave his hand a light squeeze.

“Thanks for doing this,” Mycroft said. “I know it ruins your Saturday.”

“Don’t be silly. Just say if you get sick of me, yeah?”

Mycroft smiled.

As they pulled out into traffic, Mycroft knocked on the dividing glass separating them from the driver. “I’d like to go via Cromwell Road, please.”

Greg looked at him, nervously. “Are you sure?”

“I have to see it sometime.”

As soon as they turned onto his old road, they could see the burned-out husks of the two row houses, the smoke stains marring their white paint. Police tape still covered the entrances. The roof on Mrs Chenowyth’s house had completely collapsed, leaving it open to the never-ending April drizzle. Mycroft’s house wasn’t as devastated, but burnt curtains hung out of a smashed window, and the holes in the glass showed nothing but charred remains inside.

Mycroft knocked on the divider. “Let me out. Pull over here; I won’t be long.” The sight of it made him queasy, but there was no use in postponing the inevitable.

“Do you want me to—?”

“Stay here,” Mycroft said. He didn’t want to share his emotion with anyone, not even Greg. Especially not Greg. The driver found a bus parking zone a few houses down the road and Mycroft walked back to his flat, or what was left of it. Parts of it still looked intact, and he wondered if his Turner watercolour had survived the fire. A notice on the door declared the house unfit for entry; perhaps they’d let him in at some point.

It was easier to think of the loss in terms of individual objects.

He looked at the burned-out spot where his breakfast area had been, where he’d watched Greg run by for the first time. And the second. And the third. The fact that Greg sat unharmed in the car, twenty metres away, tempered his sense of loss.

 _It was just a place to live. I only lost things, not people._ If anything, the whole horrible incident had brought the two of them closer together.

Without lingering a moment longer, he turned around and headed back to the car.

“You okay?” Greg said, followed quickly by, “Sorry, stupid question.”

“I’m fine,” he said, settling back into his seat. “I just wanted to see it.” He tapped on the divider and the driver started threading his way out of the city, towards the motorway that would take them to Mycroft’s childhood home.

* * *

Now that Mycroft was out of the hospital, Greg didn’t know to behave. Their date, only a week before, seemed impossibly far away now. For the past week, their relationship—if it was that—had revolved around visiting hours and lab results and menu choices from the canteen. Sitting in the back of the chauffeured car with Mycroft, he didn’t know where he stood.

Neither, apparently, did Mycroft. Even now, he was giving him an ‘out’.

“I don’t want you to feel obligated, Greg. It’s a long drive out to the house and I won’t be in much of a state to entertain.”

“Which is why you could use the help getting settled. The new doctor’s coming by tomorrow morning, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded.

Greg thought for a moment and frowned. “Will he—” he tipped his head towards the driver, “—have to wait around to take me back to London tonight?” Logistics hadn’t been on his mind when they’d arranged all of this.

Mycroft gave him a tired smile. “No, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

“You take care of everything.”

“It’s my job.” Mycroft’s response was automatic—said without thinking—but Greg tensed up.

“I’m supposed to be taking care of _you_ , not the other way around. You need to let other people do some of the work while you recover.”

Mycroft expression hardened. “I don’t want to start an argument about it, but it’s not your job to take care of me; I’m paying people to do that. If I’d just wanted someone to help me settle in, I would have brought my mother. Since the entire process will consist of putting away one bag of things and assessing the contents of the fridge, I’m fairly sure I can handle it alone.”

Greg slumped down into his seat and looked away. Perhaps this had been a bad idea after all.

Mycroft reached over and touched his shoulder, his voice gentler this time. “I’m sorry, I’m still a bit wound up. I accepted your kind offer because I want to spend time with you outside of that infernal hospital.”

“Oh,” Greg said, relieved. He’d been so sure this was going down an ‘I don’t want you here’ path, and he’d completely misjudged it. _Thank God._

Mycroft checked his watch. “We’ve got over an hour before we get there. Do you mind if I doze? I’m exhausted.”

“Course not. I’m wiped as well.”

They both repositioned themselves in the plush seats and let their eyes drift closed. Greg was vaguely aware of Mycroft’s hand covering his own on the seat between them—warm; vital; nothing like the clammy palm he’d clung to that night in the ambulance.

He slept without dreaming.

“Sir, we’ve arrived.”

He awoke to fresh, damp air. Mycroft was out like a light, and the driver, standing next to the open door, looked afraid to touch him. Greg couldn’t blame him. He smiled and placed his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “We’re here.”

Mycroft woke up with a start but quickly gathered his wits. “Sorry. I must have been more tired than I thought.”

As they got out of the car, Greg saw a large manor house with leaded windows and chimneyed gables. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, without thinking.

Mycroft shrugged. “It’s been in the family for ages.”

“Do you keep the plane around the back?” Greg asked, half-expecting the answer to be ‘yes’.

“No, we don’t bring it out here. It’s too close to London and there’s no runway nearby. More trouble than it’s worth.”

Greg gave him an odd look, then went back to staring at the house. “It’s gorgeous.” He couldn’t tear his eyes away. It reminded him of one of the listed houses he’d been to on a school trip when he was younger—some manor where the Earl of Something-or-Other had lived. “Why don’t your parents live here?” he said. If this was his house, he’d live here.

“Mummy doesn’t like it. Says it’s ‘too draughty’. Father used to entertain guests for work, but once he retired, they found something smaller. We could sell it, I suppose, but I quite enjoy coming out here on the weekends when I can.” He grinned and added, “Besides, it’s one of the few listed homes with high-level security protocols in place.”


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft unlocked the door and the familiar scent of his childhood wafted out—a combination of wood polish and wool rugs.

He smiled at memories of running down the stairs in his bare feet—socks were out of the question; he’d have killed himself by slipping on the polished treads. Age had led to dignity, and shoes, both of which he’d grudgingly accepted. Sherlock never cared much for either of those things, and Mummy used to nag him constantly to behave like a civilised human being. To this day, the sight of Sherlock’s bare feet reminded him of their childhood and made him smile.

He slipped off his recently-purchased ‘casual’ shoes and socks. He wasn’t wearing his usual suit of armour—he might as well enjoy the luxury of going barefoot. He smiled at the age-worn texture of the wood beneath his toes and wiggled them a bit, just to make sure it wasn’t a dream back in the hospital.

Greg looked at him nervously. “Should I, um—”

“No; feel free to leave yours on if you’d like. It’s an indulgence of mine.”

“It must be working; I haven’t seen you this relaxed in days.”

“I’ve always liked it here. It’s quiet. Even growing up, there was always somewhere I could go to get away.”

“Is this your subtle way of telling me I should leave?” Greg said, in a tone that sounded like he wasn’t sure if he was making a joke or not.

“Oh, God—no. No.” He had to remember to stop saying things like that. Greg seemed nervous enough, without worrying that he wasn’t wanted. “Here, let me show you around.”

“You don’t have to; just point me in the direction of the kitchen and I’ll get us some food or something.”

“It’s less of a ‘direction’ and more a ‘series of passages’,” Mycroft said. “Come on. You can leave that stuff by the door.” Then it dawned on him that his priorities were all wrong, and he snapped out of ‘tour-guide mode’. Closing the short distance between them, he pulled him into a hug. “Thank you,” he murmured. It felt so good to be close to Greg like this, after a week of awkward bedside kisses and friendly pats on the shoulder. He’d forgotten how comforting it was to hold onto someone—a warm, solid presence.

He wanted to cry with relief, to give in to the exhaustion.

He wouldn’t, of course. He’d never allow himself to do that.

Suddenly awkward about needing the contact, he started to pull back, but Greg saw past his false stoicism.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Just let go for a bit; I swear I’ll never breathe a word to anyone.” Greg pulled him close again, and this time Mycroft gave himself over to the emotion he’d been ignoring all week.

He stood there, letting Greg hold him, letting his mind go slack. He couldn’t think of anything to say, but the tension ebbing from his body spoke volumes.

They stayed that way for a couple of minutes, until Greg spoke. “It’s so good to see you out of that hospital bed. If you hadn’t got out when you did, I was going to kidnap you myself.”

Mycroft smiled; perhaps Greg worked for the wrong people. “Thanks for coming all the way out here. I know it’s not exactly convenient to London.”

“It’s no problem, as long as I’m not walking back.”

“Of course not.” He untangled himself from Greg. Now that he’d had a chance to unwind—and that Greg had understood and not mocked him for it—things didn’t seem as overwhelming. Showing weakness was a recipe for failure in his line of work. Between that and his experience with Philip, he was leery of opening up to anyone. “Are you hungry? I asked them to leave us some food.”

“Who are ‘they’, exactly?”

“The couple who take care of the place; they live in a cottage on the property. Don’t worry, the full-time staff left when my parents did. No one’s going to catch us _in flagrante_.”

“God, that’d be awful.”

“Indeed. Come on, the kitchen’s this way.”

* * *

The food they’d left for Mycroft was more than he usually bought in a week; it echoed the well-stocked fridge of Mycroft’s flat.

“I need to learn how to cook.” They’d just polished off some delicious sandwiches made with a fresh baguette. “Or maybe I should just buy better food. That was delicious.”

“I’m glad. As you can see, I slaved away at it for hours,” Mycroft replied dryly. 

“But you can cook—you already proved that last week. No use denying it.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I’ve always appreciated good food, perhaps to a fault. I used to be overweight, and Sherlock’s never let me forget it.”

He frowned. “Really? That’s pretty low, even for him.”

Mycroft didn’t respond, and Greg cringed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Sherlock’s behaviour towards his brother was really none of his business, but teasing people about their weight was just downright mean.

“No, it’s all right. It’s true. He takes his victories where he can get them, I suppose. It’s ironic, really.”

“How so?”

“I’ll show you.” He led him to a living room with a wall of family photos. In one, a young Sherlock stood next to a teen-aged Mycroft. They were both overweight. “Too much time spent reading books and not enough time outside,” Mycroft said. “Well, that, and the never-ending supply of good food we had. His metabolism sped up when he hit puberty; I wasn’t so lucky. I’ve never been sure if his current eating habits stem from a lack of interest in food or from a desperate conviction to stay thin.”

“Wow.” Greg wasn’t sure what else to say.

“I think his incessant sniping is a bizarre form of sibling rivalry. Still, I try not to let it bother me. I’d rather enjoy what I eat than obsess over everything that goes in my mouth.”

“Can’t argue with that. For what it’s worth, I think you look great.”

“Thanks. When I got assigned to field work, I had to go through a lot of training to get the weight off. I should have kept up with it better, but for the most part, I just try not to overindulge.”

“That’s why I run,” Greg said with a half-smile. “It lets me get away with more.”

“Do you want to see the rest of the house?”

“I’d love to.”

Mycroft led him through a seemingly endless series of rooms, and although the scale of the house was intimidating, he was relieved to see that most of it was rather informal and ‘lived-in’. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting—the state rooms at Buckingham Palace, perhaps—but it felt more like a home than a pretentious museum. The drizzly afternoon wasn’t conducive to a walk through the gardens, which Greg felt was for the best; Mycroft looked exhausted.

“You should sit down and relax. You’ve spent the last week in bed; you shouldn’t rush things, especially on my account.”

Mycroft seemed about to disagree, then sighed. “You’re right. I don’t want to end up back there. Why don’t we go back to the living room? It has the best views and comfy chairs. Can I get you anything from the kitchen?”

“Now that I know where it is, I think I should be asking you that. What can I get you?”

“Tea would be lovely, if you don’t mind. Mugs are in the cupboard above the sink; the tea’s in the one next to it. The coffeemaker—”

“—don’t worry, I’ll have tea; it’s easier,” he said, grinning.

Opening the door to the tea cupboard, he realised he’d been wrong: there had to be ten different types in there. He picked one of the tins closest to the front that didn’t have the word ‘breakfast’ in the name and hoped for the best. Thankfully, there were instructions on the tin—a good thing, considering all he knew was ‘put teabag in cup’, and there wasn’t a teabag in sight.

Greg eyed Mycroft nervously as he took his first sip, then sighed with relief as Mycroft said, “Nice choice.”

“You make it sound like I knew what I was doing.”

They spent the afternoon talking about nothing in particular and inevitably ended up lying on the sofa in much the same way they had a week previously—Mycroft with his head in Greg’s lap, both of them dozing contentedly.

When they woke up, it was getting dark. “I should get home and let you get some proper rest.”

Mycroft gave him a wistful look. “You don’t have to, you know. I’m really enjoying the company.” Then he added, hurriedly, “But it’s entirely up to you. I don’t want to keep you here.”

“Don’t be silly; of course I’ll stay. I don’t have anything on for tomorrow, and if I did, I’d change it.”

“We had the house retrofitted with sprinklers a few years back, so I think we’re safe.”

Greg laughed nervously. _It’s a good thing he has a sense of humour about it._

“Too soon?” Mycroft said.

“Maybe a bit. Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for dark humour, but I don’t want to tempt fate.”

“Fair enough. You hungry?” Lunch had been hours ago.

“Yeah, I could be. There were some pasties in the fridge; do you want me to reheat a couple? Or I could make some pasta,” Greg said. “There are a few things I’m good at cooking.”

Neither of them wanted a huge meal, and the meat pies turned out to be plenty.

They took Mycroft’s things up to the bedroom. Unpacking them, Mycroft placed the small stuffed animal on his bedside table with a smile. It looked utterly out of place in the sedate bedroom.

“You don’t have to keep that, you know,” Greg said. “It was just something silly to cheer you up.”

“And that makes it one of the nicest gifts I’ve ever had. You have no idea how effective it was.”

He beamed. “I’m glad. How’s your throat doing?”

“Better. I’m tired more than anything.” He pulled back the duvet and added, “I’m dying for a decent night’s sleep. There was so much noise at the hospital; half of my problem is probably low-grade sleep deprivation.”

Greg nodded in agreement.

They both stripped down to their boxers and climbed into the bed—just as nice as the one in Mycroft’s flat had been. Mycroft looked exhausted, and Greg had no intentions of initiating sex, but he allowed himself an appreciative glance at Mycroft’s body before they pulled the covers over them. He’d seemed so frail in the hospital bed, but then again, everyone did. Hospitals did that to you.

“I’m so glad you’re out of there. You sure I won’t be disturbing you?”

“Quite,” Mycroft said, pulling him in for a slow kiss.

Greg tried to ignore the way it made his cock twitch. Sex was the last thing Mycroft needed. Well, perhaps not the _last_ , but it didn’t seem fair to bring the matter up, as it were.

“I’m sorry my throat is off-limits for a while,” Mycroft said.

“God, no, don’t apologise! Wait, are you sure kissing is all right?”

In answer, Mycroft pulled him in for another one, longer and deeper than the first.

There was no way Greg’s body could ignore that, and despite his best intentions, his cock started to get hard. He edged away from him, hoping he wouldn’t notice, but Mycroft had never missed a thing in his life. He moved closer to Greg and slid a leg between his thighs, making his own arousal very, very clear.

“Are you sure we… I mean, it’s probably not good for you to exert yourself right now,” Greg said, aware that his voice was strained and desperate.

“Then I’ll make sure to breathe very slowly while you have your wicked way with me,” he replied, sounding—unfairly—like sex on legs. “An orgasm isn’t going to break me, you know. I proved that at the hospital.”

“What?”

“The second night I was there, I had a dream about the running shop, but this time we weren’t interrupted. I _was_ interrupted by the nurse, but I finished myself off thinking about you. You were spectacular, you know.”

“Oh, God.” How was anyone supposed to withstand this sort of temptation?

“Besides, only my mouth is off-limits,” he added, seductively.

The words sent a cascade of images through Greg’s mind, each act requiring way too much exertion to be medically advisable. Except one. “Do you… I mean, I know we haven’t really talked about this at all, but do you ever top?”

Mycroft shrugged. “It’s been ages, but sometimes, yes. I enjoy both. You?”

“Yeah, me too.” Deciding actions were better than words, he threw back the duvet, straddled Mycroft, and ground against his erection. “If I rode you, I could do all the work.”

“Christ, yes,” he said, and pulled him down for a kiss. They both shimmied out of their pants, taking a few moments to relish the feel of their cocks sliding against each other.

“Or we could just do this, if you want,” Greg said.

“It’s up to you.”

“I want your cock up my arse,” he replied—even the words made his balls throb with anticipation.

Mycroft nodded hungrily and tightened his grip on Greg’s arse, then huffed in frustration. “Bugger. I don’t have any condoms.”

“Do we need one?” asked Greg.

“I’m clean and haven’t had sex in years.”

“Me too.”

They both grinned like schoolboys.

“There should be some lube in the side table.”

Greg hadn’t been on the receiving end (well, _either_ end) of penetrative sex in ages, but he firmly believed in the use of sex toys, and if you counted those—well, he was almost a professional. He was a bit of a size queen when it came to toys, but it wasn’t the same as getting fucked. Nothing was. But it did mean he wouldn’t have to do much preparation. When you used large toys on a regular basis, all you needed was a little stretching and a lot of lube. And in this position, Mycroft wouldn’t have to do a thing.

He grabbed it and squeezed a decent amount into his palm, coating Mycroft’s cock with most of it. He reached behind him and used the rest of it to ease the way for his fingers—first one, and then almost immediately, a second. He tipped his head back and moaned, anticipating the moment when it would be Mycroft instead.

“Jesus, that was quick. It usually takes me ages,” Mycroft said, with a look of amazement.

“Large toys,” Greg breathed. “Complete pervert. Hope that’s okay.” He wasn’t able to form coherent sentences in this state. He worked a third finger into his arse without issue and decided he was more than ready.

“It’s fine—it’s bloody hot.”

“Thank God.” He knelt up and positioned himself above Mycroft’s cock. Guiding it with his hand, he lowered himself so the thick head prodded at his hole. He teased himself for a few moments, pushing against it but clenching his arse so it didn’t quite penetrate him. He loved to feel the head breach him, preferably with a little effort; he did it all the time with his toys.

Mycroft looked confused. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Oh yeah,” he said with a laugh. Releasing the tension in his thighs, Greg impaled himself on Mycroft’s cock in one long, effortless slide that took him down to the root. It pushed into him like an unstoppable force. It was glorious.

He looked down at Mycroft, whose eyes were wide with amazement. “Bloody hell.”

“You okay?” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded. “You?”

“Oh, fuck yeah. This is incredible. Tell me if I should slow down or something.”

He nodded again, and Greg took it as permission to start fucking himself on Mycroft’s cock, slowly at first, letting his body adjust to it completely. It wasn’t long before ‘slowly’ wasn’t enough, and he fucked him harder.

Mycroft let Greg ride him for a while, muttering words of excited encouragement between his moans. Then he started thrusting his hips up to meet Greg’s down-strokes, and Greg cried out in bliss. “Fuck that’s deep… yes, _there_.”

He obliged, driving into him mercilessly.

Even through the haze of arousal, Greg worried that the exertion would be too much for Mycroft’s lungs. “You okay?”

Mycroft smiled wickedly and grabbed his arse in reply, using the leverage to bury his cock even deeper on the next thrust.

Greg grunted with pleasure and stopped worrying. He held back as much as he could; he didn’t want to come before Mycroft did, and if they both kept up this pace, he wouldn’t last long. He almost wished Mycroft would flip him over and pound him into the mattress; he’d forgotten how good it felt to be fucked hard like this.

“God, I’m close,” Mycroft said, and each time he thrust up, Greg felt like the world glowed brighter for a moment. He braced himself against Mycroft’s chest and took himself in hand—no point in holding back now. Mycroft gave a few more hard thrusts, his body tensing as the orgasm crashed over him. Greg could still feel Mycroft’s cock pulsing inside him as he fisted himself, hard and fast, desperately close to his own release. 

Mycroft gazed up at him in a state of post-orgasmic bliss as Greg came all over his chest. Greg was breathing hard; Mycroft was breathing harder than he should have been. They both looked completely wrecked. He crawled off him, eliciting a gasp from Mycroft as his sensitive cock slid out of Greg’s arse.

“I’ll get us some flannels,” Mycroft said, getting up. Greg followed him to the loo, where they cleaned themselves up.

“Did we… was that too much for you?” Greg asked.

“My lungs feel fine, so I’m going to say ‘no’,” he replied with a grin.

“Oh, thank God. I’d hate to be responsible for setting you back.”

“That did me far more good than any nap could have.” He looked in the mirror and added, “I think this is the first time I’ve looked human all week.”

“It’s good to see you with some colour again,” Greg said and pulled him into a hug. “I was so worried.”

“Thank you. It meant the world that you were there all week. I know it’s not been the ideal start for a relationship.”

“Things happen,” Greg said with a smile and a shrug. “Want to try the sleep thing again? This time with actual sleep?”

They remade the bed and slipped between the soft sheets. Both of them were drifting off when Greg suddenly spoke up. “I just remembered: you told your mother you’d phone her tonight.”

Mycroft groaned. “Oh, hell. I completely forgot.”

“Will she care?”

He gave a short laugh. “She’ll probably have a bloody ambulance squad sent out here, convinced I’m in a coma.”

“That’s a yes, then?”

Mycroft groaned again. “This is the _last_ thing I want to do right now.”

“Would you rather she came over to take care of you?”

“Oh, dear Lord. Whose side are you on, anyway? What time is it?”

“About eleven.”

“I suppose that’s not too late.”

“She’ll be up and waiting,” Greg said. “You’re lucky the ambulance hasn’t shown up already.”

Mycroft patted around on the bedside table for his phone and somehow managed to push it onto the floor. He leaned over the edge of the bed and groped blindly in the dark until he found it. Grumbling indistinctly, he turned it on, illuminating the room and his face with an eerie blue glow. He scowled at it.

“For what it’s worth,” Greg said, “you’re adorable when you’re frustrated.”

Mycroft gave him a half-scowl. “If you were anyone else, I’d have you stuck on the government watch-list for saying that.”

“But I’m not, and you won’t,” he said cheekily. “Come on, it’ll only take a minute. You can always tell her I’m in the middle of shagging you senseless if you want to get her off the phone.”

* * *

Mycroft woke up with a nagging sense of unease. _Nightmares about the fire again?_  He couldn’t remember.

Greg was still asleep, so he ran a hot shower, hoping it would wash away whatever was bothering him. Before he could finish, Greg wandered in.

“Morning, gorgeous. Sleep okay?”

“I think so.” He still wasn’t sure. “You?”

“Yeah, super. Great bed.”

“Thanks.” He forced a smile he didn’t quite feel.

He checked his work email while Greg showered. It had piled up horrendously since yesterday morning—serious matters he couldn’t delegate to subordinates, not on the weekend. He’d need to spend most of the afternoon sorting it out, and at least some of it would involve personal phone calls. Just the idea of it made his throat ache more than it already did. He’d postpone the minor issues until tomorrow, when Anthea and the rest of his staff could take care of them.

Their breakfast outside on the patio cheered him up considerably. It was one of his favourite places at the house, a lovely stone affair that overlooked the lush gardens and the more distant fields dotted with grazing sheep. The mist and gloom that had dogged them for a week had been replaced with a glorious blue sky. It was still bloody cold, but he found a coat that fit Greg and they enjoyed their scrambled eggs and toast in defiance of the temperature. You had to take your sun where you could get it.

“How’s your throat today?” Greg asked, as he finished his coffee.

Mycroft responded with a non-committal expression. He didn’t want to bring down the mood by telling the truth—it was still sore and his chest felt tight every time he breathed. The hospital had sent him home with two types of inhalers and a device to help him increase his lung capacity. He would use them after Greg left; he didn’t want his weakness to be so obvious. Greg might not care, but he did.

“They gave you some meds, right? Should you be taking them?”

Mycroft bristled. “They’re ‘as-needed’. I don’t want to take them unless I have to.”

“Sorry. The doctor comes tomorrow?”

“Yes, she should be here at ten.”

“Hopefully she can tell you how long it’ll be before you can go back.”

“Mm. I need to start looking for a new flat. The other one won’t be done for ages.” _God. Another thing to do. Perhaps I’ll have Mummy look at the listings; it’ll make her feel useful._ “It’s not that I don’t like it out here, but I need to get back to London as soon as they’ll let me. I have enough to catch up on as it is.”

“Yeah, I should probably get back. I need to do some washing or I won’t have anything to wear tomorrow.”

Mycroft felt a flood of unexpected relief at the prospect of being alone; it had been almost nine days now since he’d had a chance to recharge. It wasn’t that his time with Greg wasn’t lovely—it was—but being ‘on’ for nine days, with both his parents and a new lover, was more than he could take. _That_ was the source of his bad mood; he should have seen it before.

He needed to be by himself. As soon as possible.

“There are a couple of ways you could get back,” Mycroft said, hoping he didn’t sound too enthusiastic. He didn’t want him to be offended. “I can have the caretaker drive you back, but it’s much quicker to have the helicopter pick you up. We have a charter firm we use.”

“A helicopter. You’re serious?” he said, with an uneasy look on his face. “Isn’t there a train?”

“Oh, I suppose there would be; I’ve never tried taking it. Would it run on a Sunday?”

“Probably. Let me see.” He pulled out his phone and started tapping on it. “Yeah, there’s one in half an hour. I’ll make it in plenty of time.”

“Are you sure? The helicopter’s much quicker.”

“No, the train’s good. I’m not in a rush.”

He seemed hell-bent on the train idea, so he didn’t press the issue. _Perhaps he gets motion-sick._ “All right. I can drive you to the station.”

“I don’t want to be a pain; I can take a taxi.”

“It’s fine. I insist.” He wanted to be alone as soon as possible, but he didn’t want to be rude.

“Okay, thanks.” Greg smeared a little more jam on his last piece of toast. “Is there anything you need doing before I go?”

He almost lashed out with a caustic remark about being able to take care of himself, but he caught himself and smiled instead. “No, thank you.” _He’s only trying to help._

The compulsion to be alone had reached an almost-panic level in his brain, and it was affecting his emotions. He’d been in this state before. _Fight or flight. Remain calm._ “When you’re done with that, we can head out.”

* * *

Greg stared out of the train window and kicked at the empty seat across from him.

Mycroft had dropped him off at the station, and he’d even given him a quick kiss—which was more than Greg had expected, given that it was a small town and he didn’t think Mycroft was particularly out—but something was off. He couldn’t put his finger on anything in particular, but it felt like Mycroft had been desperate for him to leave. It was the same gut-level feeling of ‘wrong’ he got at staged crime scenes.

He kicked the seat harder and scowled at the trees speeding by. He felt sick. _I don’t know why I thought this would work out._ This time he couldn’t blame it on the demands of his job; he’d cocked it up all by himself. He wasn’t even sure how. _That’s what I get for ‘being myself’. He’s already sick of me._ The hospital time didn’t count—when you’re ill, you’re glad for the company. _Now that he’s back in the real world, he’s having morning-after regrets._

The relaxing afternoon and fantastic sex they’d shared the previous day were forgotten, replaced by crushing doubt.

_I should have known I wasn’t good enough for him. A helicopter? Who the hell uses a helicopter?_

The almost-empty train was a blessing; he didn’t feel like being polite to anyone.

His mood hadn’t improved by the time he got back to the flat. If anything, it was worse: a combination of self-loathing and anger that rational thought couldn’t touch. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and drank it far too quickly. _Christ. It’s not even noon._ He’d stopped self-medicating with alcohol years ago. _I should know better._ He scanned the fridge for something inappropriate to eat—comfort food was less dangerous and more socially acceptable—but there wasn’t anything remotely interesting.

 _I’ll go out for a run and get food on the way back._ He looked at his tatty trainers, considered stopping by the shop to get new ones, and wrote it off as a bad idea. He didn’t want to think about Mycroft at the moment. He set off without a route in mind, running at a pace he knew he’d regret. If he ran hard enough to make his legs and chest burn, perhaps he could forget about everything else.

* * *

The second Greg got on the train, Mycroft felt his anxiety ebb a little. The fire, the hospital, his parents, his job, and even his time with Greg—taken together, it was all too much. Too much contact; too much of a drain on his energy. He drove home in a daze and sat on the patio, bundled in his coat. Staring into the middle distance at nothing in particular, he started to sob. He wasn’t sad, or upset, or angry; it was simply a release of tension and the sour adrenaline of panic.

It didn’t last long—long enough to serve its purpose.

Moving inside, he started working on the backlog of crises that required his attention. By the time hunger diverted him, he was surprised to see the sun had already set. He reheated some chicken he found in the fridge and took it back to his office, ready for another round. He stumbled into bed, blissfully exhausted, sometime around two in the morning.

* * *

When he returned from his run, Greg was still too distracted to function. He threw some clothes into the washing machine and collapsed onto his sofa into a sulk. He turned on the telly, hoping for something good to watch. Depressing news programs, aggressively cheery quiz shows, and highlights from a football match his team had lost. Perfect. He half-heartedly flipped through some of his DVDs, but he wasn’t really in the mood for a film.

He needed company. Perhaps Sally would listen to him bitch about things.

“Sally?”

“Oh, God. Don’t tell me there’s been a murder. Sunday’s my day off.”

“Do you want to have a drink?”

“Now? It’s four in the afternoon.”

“Look, I’m having a bloody awful day and I just want to talk to someone. I’m buying.”

“Yeah, all right. There’s nothing else on.”

They met at the pub down the road from his flat. During his first pint, he moaned about everything he could think of—everything but Mycroft—hoping that some general whining would make him feel better. It didn’t.

Halfway through their second round—and his tirade about the maintenance schedule on the Central tube line—she interrupted him.

“Why am I really here, Greg? What happened?”

He hadn’t told her anything since the Monday after the fire, and it all came tumbling out: the hospital visits, the replacement bank cards, Mycroft’s parents, his house, and—because he still couldn’t get over it—the helicopter.

She looked at him dead in the eye and said, “It’s just like you told me before you met him: posh looney.”

“But he’s not. I mean, yeah, he has money, but it’s not like he flings it around.”

“He offered to fly you back to London.”

“Yeah, but—”

“He lives in a bloody manor.”

“Yeah…”

“He’s totally out of your league.”

“Maybe, but that’s not the issue.”

“Well, something must be the issue, or you wouldn’t be here.”

Greg sighed and finished his pint. “Another round?” he said, miserably.

They spent that round, and the next, theorising about what had gone wrong. After that, things started to get fuzzy.

* * *

Greg’s alarm went off at half past four.He fumbled for the off switch, failed to find it, and threw it across the room in an effort to shut it up. It didn’t work. It continued with the relentlessness of an air raid siren. Muttering obscenities, he stumbled across the room to find it. His head felt like it was going to explode and his stomach didn’t feel much better.

He vaguely recalled getting home and going to bed—not too late, but he’d started early. He hadn’t drunk that much in years, and now he remembered why.

He wasn’t running anywhere today.

He found the aspirin and took two. Then, resetting his alarm for as late as possible, he climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over his head with a groan.

* * *

When Greg woke up for the second time, the aspirin had helped a little. His headache was gone, but the residual sick feeling in his stomach remained. He didn’t know if it was from the hangover or the lingering dread that Mycroft wanted to get rid of him.

He drowned himself in his work, trying to forget his doubts. When lunchtime came around, and he still hadn’t heard anything from Mycroft, his fears deepened. _Perhaps I’m making too much of it._ If he talked to him and everything seemed fine, then most likely it was. He’d just move on like it had never happened.

Closing the door to his office, he nervously dialled Mycroft’s number. After a few rings, it went to voicemail.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He hated leaving messages, especially when he didn’t know where he stood with someone.

“Yeah, Mycroft, it’s Greg. I, um, wanted to see how everything went with the doctor this morning. Hope it was all good news. I had a great time this weekend, thanks.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. “So, um, give me a ring and let me know how you’re doing if you get a chance. Thanks. Bye.”

Nothing like awkward voicemail messages to make you feel like a complete idiot.

Sally stopped by his office mid-afternoon. “Any word from the posh looney?”

“Don’t start,” Greg said, irritatedly. “Try and remember I fancy him.”

“What? You were pretty upset with him last night.”

“I was pretty drunk last night; I think I overreacted. Anyway, give it a rest.”

“It’s your life,” she said, shrugging. “Just trying to look out for you.”

“Yeah, well thanks, but let me handle it.”

When he still hadn’t heard back from him that night, he debated calling again. Deciding it would come across as overly desperate, he resorted to distraction: he put in some old episodes of Doctor Who and watched the Daleks try and exterminate the human race once and for all.

* * *

Tuesday would have been easier if he’d had something to think about other than paperwork. Annual staffing reviews were just around the corner, and everyone wanted to personally remind him of how invaluable they were.

“Just put it in the paperwork,” he said, for at least the fifth time that morning. Deciding he’d had enough, he left the building for a decent cup of coffee and a ten minute break. The weather outside was surprisingly nice for April, the sun playing hide-and-seek between transient clouds.

Coffee in hand, he called Mycroft. He gritted his teeth in frustration when it went to voicemail.

“Yeah, hi, it’s Greg again. I hope you’re doing okay. Look, I was wondering—did I do something wrong? Because if I did, I didn’t mean to, and I’m sorry.” _Damn. I shouldn’t have led off with that._ “Not that I expect you to return all my phone calls or anything, just—” _Well, this is going downhill fast._ “Never mind. Anyway, I hope you’re feeling better. Phone me if you get a chance, yeah? I’d like to talk to you.” He hung up, feeling like an idiot.

He went back and stood in line for a doughnut to go with the last half of his coffee: self-pity carbs. Then he trudged back inside, trying to pretend Mycroft wasn’t ignoring him.

* * *

Wednesday morning dawned bright and sunny. Greg even went for a run, trying to get his mind off of the situation with Mycroft.

He was in the middle of getting dressed for work when his phone rang. He dove for it, hoping it was him.

It wasn’t. It was Sally. There’d been a stabbing, and he needed to meet them at the crime scene. It appeared to be an open and shut domestic—no reason to bring in Sherlock. The morning dragged on and all the evidence supported their case against the husband. He claimed he’d found her with the knife already in her chest, and that when he pulled it out, he got covered in blood. It was the worst alibi Greg had heard in weeks. When they confronted him with the blood spray patterns on his clothes—proof that she was still alive when he found her (and stabbed her)—he confessed to everything.

_If only everything in life could be this straightforward._

He’d still had no word from him by lunchtime, and he started to get seriously worried. And irritated. As far as he could tell, he’d done nothing to merit this wall of silence, but for as much as they’d shared over the past two weeks, he had to admit there was a lot he didn’t know about Mycroft. There was only one person who did. Unfortunately, the idea of discussing his personal life with Sherlock was about as appealing as the idea of making a sandwich from the contents of Sherlock’s fridge.

Still, helplessly watching his relationship crash and burn was worse than either of those options.

He phoned him, not bothering to text first. If Sherlock thought there was a case involved, he’d be more likely to pick up.

“Sherlock, do you have a minute?”

“What’s going on? Something interesting?”

“Nothing with a body count; sorry. Look, I need your help with Mycroft.” Sherlock laughed. This had been a terrible idea.

“Trouble in paradise?”

Greg could hear the grin in his voice. He wanted to punch him. “That’s the problem; I don’t know. We had a great time on Saturday, and then on Sunday it seemed like he couldn’t wait for me to leave.”

“Spare me the details. I don’t want to know about his sex life.”

“I don’t plan on sharing them. I just want to know what I did wrong.”

“I’m flattered you’d think I’d know.” he said, sarcastically. “Did you try asking him?”

“I would if he’d answer his bloody phone. I left two messages but he won’t return my calls.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

“I know he’s out of my league,” Greg added, “but things seemed to be going so well. I don’t get it.”

“Your league? You’re not even playing the same game.”

“Yeah, be a prick, why don’t you?”

“No, I’m not talking about class, you idiot. What makes you think he can handle a relationship?”

“What, are you saying he’s looking for a fling?”

Sherlock sighed. “No, I’m saying he’s about as good with people as you are with deductions. What did he say that made you so sure he was trying to get rid of you?”

“Well, nothing in particular; he just seemed really off, like he couldn’t wait for me to leave. And now he won’t return my calls.”

There was a brief pause before Sherlock said, “Do you know what an extrovert is?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Do you?”

“Sure. Outgoing.”

“And an introvert?”

“Shy, I guess. Quiet. Why?”

“Wrong on both counts. They might exhibit those traits, but they don’t define the personalities. Extroverts derive energy from being around others; introverts find prolonged social interaction to be draining.”

“Oh.” He started to see where Sherlock was going with this.

“Despite my parents’ inexplicable tendency towards extroversion, both my brother and I are introverts. Last Sunday would have made it nine days since he’d had a chance to be alone. I imagine he needed the space and was too polite to say so.”

“Fuck. That makes me look like a right prick.”

“No, it just means you’re clueless with people—much like Mycroft, but in an entirely different way.”

“But why won’t he return my calls?”

“How rude were you?”

“I wasn’t! I just asked what I’d done wrong and told him I wanted to hear from him.”

“Then I have no idea. Perhaps he’s not sure he can be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t understand that part of him.”

A wave of nausea hit him. What if he was right? “Thanks,” he said grimly. “I owe you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Sherlock replied, sounding matter-of-fact.

When he rang Mycroft, it went to voicemail—he’d expected it to, really.

“Yeah, it’s Greg. Look, I talked to Sherlock and he explained about the whole introvert/extrovert thing. I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I mean, it makes sense, I just had no idea. I won’t crowd you, I swear. You can have as much space as you need. But I really don’t want to let this go; I mean, I really like you and I think we could have something if we give it a chance. I’m sorry. Just call me back, yeah? Please?”

He hung up and stared at the phone, willing it to ring. He factored in the time it would take for Mycroft to listen to the message. It still didn’t ring. He groaned in frustration and shoved it back into his pocket.

He continued working—if you can call glaring at the screen ‘working’—on the staffing reviews for about ten minutes before he checked his phone again. The ringer was definitely on. No missed calls.

“Fuck!” He slammed his phone onto the desk.

Sally heard him and hurried into his office, closing the door behind her. “You okay? What’s going on?”

“I’m an idiot, and he’s stubborn, and this is all a bloody disaster.”

“Sherlock?”

“No,” he said, lowering his voice and giving her a meaningful look. “The other one.”

“Still nothing?”

“He won’t answer his damn phone.”

“Then go and talk to him in person.”

“I can’t. He’s out in bloody Wiltshire.”

“Go. I’ll cover for you.”

“But I don’t know if—”

“Go!”


	7. Chapter 7

Greg tore out of London on his motorbike, cursing the rush-hour backups and riding between the lanes of slow-moving cars when he could get away with it, even though he knew better. He didn’t speed. Much. Enough to get him there before dark.

If what Sherlock had said was true, the phone calls he’d made in the last few days had probably made things worse. He still felt as if Mycroft was overreacting by ignoring him—he’d only called to see how he was doing, after all—but perhaps there were other things going on. _Health things._ He sped up a little more. If he could just talk to him personally, they could work it out. _Right?_

When he got there, Mycroft didn’t answer the door. He rang the bell a few more times, thinking perhaps he was asleep, but there was no response. No signs of life on the patio. At a loss, he tried Mycroft’s phone again, only to growl in frustration when it went to voicemail. _I’m not going to leave. He has to be here. Christ. What if he’s back in the hospital again? Or at his parents’ house? I don’t even know where they live. I could call Sherlock and ask—_

_Stop. Just think._

He’d passed the caretaker’s cottage back down by the main road. Perhaps they’d know. It was too far to walk there quickly, so he put his helmet back on and rode down the long, tree-lined driveway. He saw movement inside the house, and when he knocked on the door it was immediately opened by a woman in her sixties.

“May I help you?” she said, looking at him warily.

“I’m looking for Mycroft; do you know if he’s home?”

“And you would be?”

“Greg. Greg Lestrade. I’m a friend of his. Is he all right?”

“Oh, of course you are. Yes, he’s fine. He’s not up at the house?”

“He doesn’t seem to be.”

“He might have gone into the town, or I suppose he could be out for a walk. Sometimes he walks to town if the weather’s nice. I don’t remember seeing the car go by, though. We would have noticed that, wouldn’t we, dear?”

“Yes, we’d have seen that.”

“We might have missed him walking by though, or he could be out on the grounds somewhere. There’s a lot of land; you can wander for miles—”

“Thank you so much,” Greg said, cutting her off. It seemed like the conversation would go on for years if he let it. “I’ll go up and wait for him at the house, if that’s all right.”

“Would you like to come in for some tea?”

“No, no. Thank you, though. I’ll be fine,” he said, making sure to smile politely. Getting sucked into tea and biscuits was the last thing he needed. He wanted to find Mycroft, not chat about the weather with old age pensioners.

There was still no sign of him when he got back. This time he left a message on his voicemail: “Look, I’m not sure what I did, but can you just let me know you’re okay? I’m worried. I’m at the house, and you’re not here, and I’m not sure what to do. Please, just let me know you’re all right.” He sounded desperate. He didn’t care; he was desperate.

Perhaps he was ignoring his messages. Texts usually showed up on the screen and were harder to ignore. He quickly typed one up and sent it: _‘Please just reply and let me know you’re okay. And whatever I did, I’m sorry.’_

He stared at the phone, praying he’d get a response and trying to figure out what to do if he didn’t. He’d have to call Sherlock and get him to—

The phone beeped with an incoming text: _‘I’m fine. What are you doing here?’_

Relief flooded through him as he read it. He hadn’t mentioned in the text that he was at the house, so it either meant Mycroft was listening to his messages or was able to see him. Either was good.

 _‘I want to talk to you, and you won’t return my calls.’_  That pretty much summed it up. He didn’t want to conduct the entire discussion via text messaging.

_‘I’m about a mile from the house. There’s a trail heading east if you want to meet me halfway.’_

‘Meeting him halfway’ sounded like the right thing to do, both metaphorically and literally. He looked around until he spotted a dirt footpath at the edge of the gardens and took off for it at a good clip. By the time he’d crossed the lawn, he was jogging—and wishing he had on his trainers instead of his motorcycle boots. It took about five minutes until he spotted Mycroft cresting the hill in front of him.

“Mycroft!”

In the distance, he saw Mycroft nod in acknowledgement. When they met up, Mycroft gave him an icy look. “Hello, Greg.”

“Jesus. What did I _do?”_ He hadn’t meant to lead off with that, but he didn’t understand why he was so upset.

Mycroft pulled out his phone, pressed a few buttons, and handed it to him.

_“You have five saved messages. First saved message.”_

_“Mycroft? It’s Greg. I don’t know where you get off thinking you’re better than everyone else, just because you have a helicopter and a big house.”_

“Oh my God,” Greg muttered, horrified. It was him, and he was drunk. Very drunk. And very rude. And apparently, completely out of his mind. His hand flew to his mouth as if he could stop the rest of the message from spilling out of the phone, but it was too late for that. Clearly.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

_“The rest of us aren’t good enough for you, is that it? Is that why you were in such a hurry to get rid of me this morning? Well I’m sorry I’m not posh enough to be in your little club.”_

Greg’s eyes got wider as the message went on. It was awful, and it just got worse. Mycroft stood and watched, impassively.

_“I suppose it was all well and good when you were in hospital, but now you don’t want to be seen with me in public. Well next time, just tell me that up front. I’m almost glad you didn’t though, because the sex was bloody fantastic.”_

Greg let out a short laugh, despite himself. It was the only true statement in the whole, horrifying atrocity. Mercifully, that was the end of it. The phone started to play back his message from Monday—the one where he told Mycroft how much fun he’d had and asked about his health, blissfully oblivious to his drunken ramblings of the night before.

Where had it all come from? He didn’t believe any of those things. They didn’t even make sense. Somewhere during his drunken pity-fest at the pub, he must have latched onto Sally’s ‘posh loony’ thing, lashed out at Mycroft, and here he was, burning in the pits of hell.

Mycroft hadn’t done anything to deserve this.

Greg looked at him, aghast. “I’m so, so sorry. I… I had no idea. Oh, God. I’m so sorry. Please.”

“Please?”

“Please forgive me for this. Give me another chance. I thought you were trying to get rid of me. I was miserable.”

“You’re far more perceptive than Sherlock gives you credit for. I _was_ trying to get rid of you,” Mycroft said, without any emotion in his voice.

“You were?” he said, feeling sick. He’d hoped he was wrong, hoped they could work this out.

“Not permanently—just for the morning. I was overwhelmed and needed space.”

“What?” Perhaps Sherlock had been right; Mycroft’s explanation meshed with the introversion thing.

“I thought I’d been subtle enough that you wouldn’t notice and be offended, but clearly I failed. I apologise.”

“ _You_ apologise?” Greg said, stunned. “I mean, thank you, but that isn’t how this works. I’m the one who drunk-dialled you and left the awful message. I’ll keep apologising until you tell me to fuck off or decide to forgive me.”

“Do you always get that drunk when you’re upset?”

Greg cringed. It was a fair question.

“No. Not in years, I swear. I even went out for a run first. When it didn’t help, I phoned up Sally to go out for a drink. A ‘couple rounds’ turned into ‘too many’ and I started talking about you. You know how it gets: you always want to blame the other person for a breakup.”

“You thought I was breaking up with you?” Mycroft said, staring at him like he was insane. “Why? We even kissed at the station.”

“Something felt ‘off’.” He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “I thought you were—I don’t know—politely getting rid of me. I thought I wasn’t good enough for you.”

“If I was breaking up with you, you’d know. Trust me.”

Greg frowned nervously. “Are you going to?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Mycroft replied in a neutral tone. “Do you believe those things you said?”

“No,” he said, vehemently. “God, no. You’ve never made any of this about money or social status. I don’t think you judge people like that.”

“Thank you.”

“But apparently _I’m_ really insecure about it, especially when I’m drunk,” he said, looking contrite. “I’m sorry.”

The wind was whipping up and Mycroft shoved his gloved hands into his pockets. “Let’s go back to the house. I’m getting cold.”

Greg nodded. “I don’t understand something.”

“Hm?”

“Why didn’t you ring me on Monday and rip me a new one?”

“I was hurt and upset. It would have done more harm than good.”

“Christ. You’ve got more self-control than I do,” Greg muttered.

“When you phoned at lunch, I let it go to voicemail because I thought you were breaking up with me and I didn’t want to face it. When I realised you didn’t remember saying those things, I wasn’t sure what to do.”

“So you just… avoided me?”

“We all have our flaws.”

Greg considered that for a few moments. “When were you planning on saying something?”

“I didn’t want to talk about it over the phone. I had vague notions of coming to London to see you.”

“Oh.”

“I was avoiding that, too. You forced the issue by coming here.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“It was cruel, leaving you hanging like that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Not sure what I’d have done, either.”

They walked along in silence for a while.

“Why is money such an issue for you?” Mycroft asked. His tone wasn’t judgemental, just curious.

Greg shrugged. “We didn’t have any, growing up. My mum used to clean this posh woman’s house. She didn’t pay her much, but Mum always thought she walked on water just because she was rich.” He stared off into the distance, watching the incoming storm clouds as they walked. He didn’t want to make eye contact; the subject hit too close to the bone. “I always hated that she thought this person was better than she was,” he continued. “When I joined the force, she was so proud of me. Said I was the first one in the family who’d made something of myself. But it was so arbitrary—I wasn’t working any harder than she had all those years, I was just making more money doing it.”

“Is she still alive?”

“No, she died right after I made DI.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. It’s ironic, really. I used to hate that she bought into the whole ‘class superiority’ thing, and then I did the same thing without realising it. Guess that’s why I felt like you were ‘out of my league’.”

“I know this sounds horrible,” Mycroft said, “but when you’ve grown up with money, you don’t really think about it. It’s just there. When I offered to send you back by helicopter, it was because it was quicker and I thought you’d enjoy it. I wasn’t trying to show off.”

Greg frowned. “I can’t even comprehend having that much money. I mean, I’m doing all right for myself now that I’ve made DI, but I’ll never be that sort of rich.”

“Do you think you can get over it? Your issues with me, I mean.”

“I don’t—” he was going to say ‘have any issues’, but his drunken phone call proved otherwise. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, I didn’t realise it bothered me. It’s just the way I was brought up, you know? Being aware of it’ll help.”

“And your friends?”

“What about them?”

“I worry more that you’d be ashamed to be seen with _me_ in public than the other way around.”

That stung, but he wasn’t entirely off the mark. “I might get some ribbing about it, yeah. Just about having a posh boyfriend, I mean—not about being gay. But fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”

“Sorry?”

“Er, bad choice of words. If they can’t deal with it, they’re not worth my time.”

Mycroft considered this but didn’t answer.

“Is there anything else I can say in my defence?”

“No,” Mycroft replied, the bare hint of a smile starting to form on his lips, “you’ve made a fairly convincing case. I’ll render judgement after a cup of tea, but I think it’s going to go in your favour.”

“Oh, thank God,” Greg said, sighing with relief. “I’m so sorry about the whole thing.”

“One of the terms of my decision is that you’re never to apologise about it again.”

Greg almost apologised again, out of habit, but stopped himself. “Thank you.”

“I don’t hold grudges, and I don’t believe in emotional blackmail.” Then with a bit of a grin, he added, “Although sometimes I make an exception for Sherlock.”

When they got back to the house, they went inside and Mycroft put the kettle on. Greg declined his offer of coffee—it wouldn’t help his nerves. It was too bad he was riding back to London—he could have used a stiff drink. He gratefully accepted the cup of tea, warming his frozen hands on it. He hadn’t realised how cold it was outside.

“Something to eat?” Mycroft asked, opening a cupboard with some biscuits.

He’d skipped lunch and suddenly he realised he was starving. “Love some, thanks.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” Mycroft said, as they walked into the living room.

When Greg took off his bike jacket, stretching a little to get the stiffness out of his arms, he caught Mycroft giving him an appreciative glance. _That’s got to be a good sign._ They sat down in chairs on opposite sides of a coffee table.

“I think we can move beyond this, don’t you?” Mycroft said, point blank.

“I do. I really want to.”

“Then let’s. This means too much to me to throw it away over a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t confront you about it.”

“It’s fine,” Greg said. “Kiss and make up?” he added, hopefully.

Mycroft took a sip of tea and smirked. “You know, there was one huge thing in your favour on that message: even though you were upset, you still said the sex was fantastic.”

“You can’t hide the truth when you’re drunk,” he replied with a huge grin. “You’re bloody amazing in bed.”

“How do I know you don’t just want me for my body?” Mycroft teased.

“You’ll have to take my word for it, but would it be so bad if I did?”

“Perhaps not,” he said, standing up. He pulled Greg out of his chair and into a hug.

“I missed you.”

“Me too. Let’s not do this again.”

Greg gave a quick laugh. “God, no.” He kissed him, and it was as if the past few horrible days hadn’t happened. It was just Mycroft, and warmth, and comfort—and, as the kiss continued, arousal.

Mycroft’s hand found his arse and squeezed.

“You know, I had no idea you’d look so sexy in your bike… ‘outfit?’”

“Leathers.”

“Of course. Bike leathers.” He rubbed his hand across the thick black leather, worn soft from use. “Do you wear anything under these? They seem a bit tight.”

They felt a bit tight, but for different reasons. “Just pants. Why? Would you like to see?” Greg asked, feigning innocence.

“You have to ask?” He kissed him again.

Greg pressed his palm against Mycroft’s wool tweed trousers, where he felt his rapidly-hardening cock. “No, s’pose not.” Warm hands slid across his chest, against the old cotton t-shirt he’d thrown on in his hurry to change and get out of the house. He wished it had been one of his old punk tees, long since gone; wished he hadn’t got rid of them when he decided to ‘get a life’. Mycroft didn’t seem to mind either way, although he did seem very keen on his leathers.

Without warning, Mycroft dropped to his knees. He looked up at Greg as he started unzipping the leather trousers. “Fuck my mouth, and make it rough.”

“Sorry?” he said, overcome by surprise. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Mycroft swear before.

“Fuck. My mouth. And make. It rough,” he repeated, slowly and deliberately. He ran his tongue across his lips to emphasise the point.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “That’s what I thought you said. Just checking.” He always cringed at that sort of language in porn, but coming out of Mycroft’s mouth it was the sexiest thing ever. He scrambled to push his trousers down around his ankles but Mycroft stopped him.

“No, leave them on.”

He chuckled. “Didn’t know you were into that.” Something tugged at his mind, but he couldn’t place it. It wasn’t until those soft, wet lips closed around his cock that it came to him: Mycroft’s mouth. It was still off-limits, medically. _Fuck._ “Stop,” he said, pulling away. Mycroft looked up at him, surprised and disappointed. “You’re not allowed, remember?”

Mycroft pouted—a look that reminded Greg so much of Sherlock that he almost laughed, but he knew better. He wanted to take him right here on the floor—fuck him through the thick, Persian rug—but that required preparation, and they both needed it _now,_ wanted it quick and filthy. He had an idea.

He pulled Mycroft to his feet and kissed the pout from his lips. “I’m gonna make you come so hard,” he whispered. “You have any lube?”

“Upstairs.”

“Get it,” he said, palming Mycroft’s crotch with a firm squeeze. “And be quick about it.” Mycroft tore off up the stairs, and he couldn’t resist a few blissful strokes to his cock. He wondered if Mycroft had ever done this; the last time for him had been a frenzied coupling in a filthy alleyway, its soundtrack the muffled bass of the punk ‘concert’ on the other side of the wall. He smiled. Some parts of his ‘interesting youth’ had been better than others.

Mycroft returned in less than a minute, a remarkable feat given the size of the place. Greg kissed him passionately, then pulled back on his hair and sucked a bruise into his neck. Mycroft moaned and tipped his head back further, inviting more.

“You want it a bit rough, huh?”

Mycroft nodded.

Greg flashed back on the afternoon when they’d first met, when he’d done the mock ‘search’ on him in the back of the limo. “I should’ve brought my cuffs—keep you in place while I take you apart.”

“You’d like that,” Mycroft said.

“So would you.”

They both grinned.

“So, what are you going to do to me?” Mycroft said, his voice low and unbearably sexy.

“Oh… what _don’t_ I want to do to you?” he replied, undoing Mycroft’s trousers. “Get your shirt off. I want to see you.”

Mycroft hurried to push off his pants and slacks, letting them fall to the floor in an uncharacteristic heap. His shirt, mercifully button-free, quickly joined them.

Devouring Mycroft’s naked body with a hungry stare, he ran his fingernails teasingly across his chest. He paused at his left nipple and squeezed it. Slowly. Deliberately. Watched Mycroft’s face as he did it.

His eyes fluttered closed and he leaned into it, ever so slightly.

“God, you’re sexy. Like a bit of pain, do you?” He squeezed the other one, to equally satisfying effect. Then he grabbed one of his wrists and brought Mycroft’s hand up to his mouth. Closing his teeth gently across one knuckle, he gave it a quick lick and made eye contact before he released it with a kiss. With a raise of his eyebrows, he asked, “Have you ever been tied up during sex?”

Mycroft responded with a keening sound, then grabbed Greg’s head and kissed him—hard. “Stop being a tease and fuck me.”

Who was he to argue?

His own trousers were still open and skimming his hips, but it didn’t stop him from pulling Mycroft to the centre of the room and positioning him behind the large sofa. “Brace yourself against this and don’t move,” he said in the voice he normally reserved for suspects.

Mycroft complied, his cock dangling heavily between his spread legs.

“Well, aren’t you a sight? Almost looks like you’re begging for it.”

“Stop stating the obvious,” Mycroft said in a cheeky voice.

“Oh, so you admit it?”

“Always.”

Greg squirted some lube onto his hand and slicked himself up. “Legs together.”

Mycroft looked over his shoulder in confusion.

“What part of that wasn’t clear? Do I have to force you?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Perhaps.”

Greg gave him a playful slap on the arse in retaliation. “Feet together or you’ll get a proper spanking.”

“Empty promises,” Mycroft teased, but brought his legs together tightly.

Greg lined himself up, then pushed his slick cock between his thighs.

His breath stuttered as Greg’s prick slid underneath his balls. “Oh…” he murmured, finally understanding. “That’s—”

“Yeah?” Greg said, hopefully.

He hummed his agreement and tilted his hips, taking him deeper.

His pelvis pressed flush against Mycroft’s body, up against his well-toned thighs. _Runner’s thighs,_ he thought with a smile. “Can’t blame me for having a thing for your legs,” he said. “Now, keep them tight.” He grasped the back of the sofa with one hand and closed the other around Mycroft’s erection. Each thrust would push Mycroft’s cock through his tight grip.

Mycroft shifted slightly to get a more stable position, one that would let Greg fuck him harder.

“Good?”

“Yeah. Never done this,” he said breathlessly.

Words fell away as they got lost in it, finding a rhythm that satisfied them both, driving them closer to orgasm.

Mycroft came—with a groan of ‘fucking hell’—all over Greg’s fist.

He came a couple seconds later, coating the insides of Mycroft’s thighs.

Mycroft slowly turned to him and leaned against the back of the sofa, his face slack in a dazed, breathless smile.

Greg couldn’t help but feel a little smug. “You liked that, yeah?”

“How on earth did you guess?”

“We should do it again sometime and switch places. It’s fun.”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

Greg smiled, then glanced down at the colossal mess they’d made. There was semen everywhere: their stomachs, hands, thighs, and… _oh._ “Um, sorry. We might need to clean off the sofa,” he said, sheepishly.

Mycroft gave him a lackadaisical shrug. “It’s leather. It’ll wipe off.” With a conspiratorial grin, he added, “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”

“You don’t care?” He’d expected him to be horrified.

“I think it’s the first _fun_ this furniture’s ever seen.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. I’m all for it; we can make a list if you’d like. I’m sure we have at least two more sofas and the dining room table could be fun, although possibly a bit hard on the back.”

Greg pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You’re nothing like people think you are.”

“I don’t give most of them a chance to find out.”

* * *

Mycroft made them some dinner and tried to talk him into staying the night. It was tempting—a drizzle had descended across the area and it was lousy riding weather—but he had to work in the morning. Riding back, changing at home, and getting to work on time—all with the London commuting traffic—seemed like a dodgy prospect at best. Instead, he stayed as late as he could without getting too tired for the ride; an hour on the bike was a lot more difficult than an hour in a car.

He didn’t want to overstay his welcome, even though Mycroft assured him that he’d say something _before_ he got to the breaking point this time. Neither of them wanted to make the same mistake twice.

“How’d things go with the doctor?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“That well, huh?”

“She wants to wait until Friday to re-evaluate. Says it hasn’t been long enough to tell.”

“Is she right?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he said, slumping in his chair a little.

He couldn’t bear to see Mycroft demoralised. “You’re out walking though. That’s great progress.”

“True. I suppose I’m getting better. I’m barely using the inhalers.”

“Soon we’ll get you running,” Greg said, flashing him a dazzling grin, “and then there’ll be no stopping you.”

“I know; my ‘scenic walks’ aren’t quite in the same league,” Mycroft replied, his lips echoing Greg’s smile.

“Exercise is exercise. You’ll be in better shape for it than you think.” He had some more coffee; he’d probably be up ‘til three but at least he’d be good for the ride home. “How’s your work going?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Mycroft said, doing a perfect Sean Connery impersonation.

“You know what I meant, Mr Bond.”

“I’m staying on top of it,” Mycroft said, in his normal voice. “It’s not the same as being there, but I’m more productive than I’d expected.”

“Do you think she’ll let you get back next week?”

“I have no idea, but I doubt it. As much as I’d like to return to my ‘Secret World Domination Headquarters’, I probably shouldn’t push my luck.”

“Yeah, I’m sure your minions can handle it.”

“They do hate it when I call them that,” he deadpanned.

“I’ll bet you terrify them.”

A slow smile spread across Mycroft’s face. “On my good days, yes.”

“Don’t worry; I won’t tell them how lovely you really are.” Greg didn’t broach the subject of the weekend—still a few days away. He wanted to see him again, sooner rather than later, but pressuring him about it seemed like a disastrous idea. As much as he’d love to come out and visit, he’d let him suggest it on his own terms. ‘Introverts needing space’ might be a new concept for him, but he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

He got ready to leave and went out to his bike, cold and wet on the driveway from the evening’s endless drizzle. At least his leathers would keep his bum dry.

Mycroft watched him from the dry doorway. “Sure you don’t want to stay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine, thanks.” Before he put his helmet on, he walked back to see him. “Thanks for forgiving me.”

“Sorry for not phoning.” Mycroft leaned in and gave him a tender kiss that left no doubt they’d put the issue behind them.

“See you soon?” Greg asked, hopefully.

“I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

Greg beamed at him. “Sounds great.” He reluctantly put on his helmet; it sheathed him in a familiar hush, its padding dampening the ambient noise of water dripping off the trees. Climbing onto the bike, he felt the wet seat start to suck the body-heat from his trousers. It would be a long ride back to London.

He pushed up the plastic visor and called over to Mycroft. “I’ll text you when I get back, yeah?”

“Please do.”

The fond look in his eyes made Greg forget about the cold. At least until he got on the M4.

* * *

Mycroft walked back inside, smiling to himself as the bike sped off down the driveway. Greg in ‘leathers’ had been a glorious sight, one that he’d remember for a while, but he didn’t envy him the ride back in this weather. He was immensely grateful he’d made the long trip to sort things out. Who knows how long it would have taken to mend things if it had been left up to him?

Sitting by the fireplace with a small glass of Scotch, he contemplated the lunacy of the day’s events. He’d almost asked Greg to come back and stay for the weekend—twice, actually—but somehow, he never had. An underlying fear of running him off again. Over the course of a few hours, there’d been sulking, insecurity, reconciliation, fantastic sex, and the comfortable ease he’d missed so much. It had left his head spinning, in the best of ways, but he didn’t quite trust his own judgement at the moment. He put his mobile next to the Totoro on his beside table and stayed up reading until he got Greg’s text.

He responded with, ‘ _Thanks for today_ ,’ leaving the meaning deliberately vague. He wanted it to encompass both the emotional and sexual aspects without being specific.

‘ _You too_ ,’ was Greg’s reply.

Mycroft smiled, glad the horrible tension and anxiety of the past four days had finally been resolved.

* * *

The following morning, Mycroft was in the middle of a phone call with the director of MI6 when the doorbell rang. He checked the door camera with his laptop and rolled his eyes; it was his parents, standing there looking irritatingly cheerful. Impeccable timing; at least they hadn’t interrupted him having sex with Greg. He took his mobile and continued his conversation as he walked to the front door. The doorbell rang again before he could get there.

He opened the door with a forced smile, pointing at the phone and mouthing the word “important” as he gave his mother a one-handed hug. He wasn’t fond of social hugging, but his mother had made her stance very clear long ago. ‘Battles worth fighting’ and all that. They had the decency to go off to the kitchen and make themselves some tea, leaving him to finish the conversation in private—which was good, because ‘How to tactfully tell your mother she doesn’t have the security clearance to be in the room’ wasn’t something they taught in school—and a battle he _would_ fight, if necessary.

They stayed for the better part of three hours, chatting on about their week and fussing over his health. They seemed heartened by his quick recuperation and admitted that he’d made the right choice in leaving the hospital. Once he no longer needed the medical care there, the environment had done nothing but sap his emotional strength.

They asked after Greg, their curiosity anything but subtle. He wondered what he’d have said if they’d asked him twenty-four hours earlier. Still, he could say with a clear conscience that things were going well.

“And what are you going to do about the house?” she said, changing the subject.

“Which one?”

“The townhouse. Have you talked to the insurance people yet?”

“Yes, I’m taking care of it.” More to the point, he had someone else taking care of it. “The renovation is going to take ages; they’re estimating it’ll be over a year before it’s done.”

“That’s a shame,” she said, frowning. “It was such a good location.”

Thankfully, it had no sentimental value; it was just a place to live, not a house that had been in the family for generations. He’d decided at the beginning of the week to look for somewhere else. With the housing market the way it was, anything in that location would be snapped up at a premium. He’d already been perusing the real estate listings for something new. Something on a quieter road. Something on a good running route. “I’ve been looking for places nearby.”

“No chance you’ll stay out here permanently then?” asked his father. He’d always been much more sentimental about this place than Mummy.

Mycroft smiled indulgently. “You know that’s not feasible with my job. I have enjoyed it though; I’m going to spend more weekends out here.”

“Oh, that’s good. I’ve always hated it being empty.”

He let them stay until their chatter turned completely mindless. He was careful not to make them feel unwanted, well aware he could have been subjected to multiple visits. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate their concern—they just tended to go on. And on. And he had emails to answer and meetings to conduct.

They finally left mid-afternoon, but they hadn’t been gone ten minutes before the phone rang. It was the insurance people, telling him their investigation had proceeded far enough that he could search his house for any remaining belongings. After a moment’s thought, he told them he’d be there that weekend. They’d ruled the fire as ‘accidental’, caused by faulty wiring in Mrs Chenowyth’s house. It was the same conclusion his own people had reached, their investigation having been conducted much more quickly and thoroughly. It hadn’t been an attack on his life.

A half hour later, the phone rang again. The people delivering his treadmill had got lost and needed directions; he wasn’t about to let foul weather stop him from getting back into shape.

* * *

As Greg did up his tatty trainers the next morning, he swore it would be the last time he’d wear the disgusting things. Today at lunch he’d go back to the running shop. He’d have them look up Mycroft’s shoe information and buy him a replacement pair, along with some new running kit. It was part of the reason he bought his shoes from them—the shop assistant might even remember him. Having his shoe information on file had saved him a couple times when the shoes—like the ones he was putting on—were too worn out to be identifiable, but he suspected no one had ever needed it for this particular reason.

He stopped at the Starbucks after his run. Jill looked up at him with surprise.

“Hey Greg, haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah,” he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “The last few weeks have been crazy.”

“I hope I didn’t scare off your friend,” she said with a knowing look.

It seemed like years ago since he’d dragged Mycroft here. “No, it turns out coffee isn’t really his thing.”

“That’s too bad,” she said, wincing. “Sorry.”

“Oh,” he said, realising she’d misinterpreted him. “That wasn’t some sort of code—he just prefers tea. We’re still going out.”

“Look at you—you’re glowing just talking about him.”

“That’s the sweat, Jill.”

“Maybe, but I haven’t seen you smiling like that in months.” She handed him his usual. “He’s good for you.”

“Yeah, he is.”

“Tell him I said hello, yeah?”

“Will do,” he replied, raising his cup in acknowledgement. “Gotta go. I need to get in early.”

‘Early’ still wasn’t enough time to make up for the things he’d missed the previous day—not when an unexpected case derailed any hope of getting caught up. It seemed to be related to an ongoing serial killer investigation, so he brought Sherlock in. He didn’t have a snappy two-minute solution to the case, which was a crying shame. Still, Greg had faith that he’d figure it out soon enough; he always did, if he didn’t nearly get killed trying.

He kept trying to catch a moment alone with him, but there were people everywhere. Nothing to be done for it—he’d have to pull him off to the side. “Oi, I need to talk to you!” he said, motioning to a corner where they couldn’t be overheard.

“In case you’re blind, Lestrade, I happen to be busy,” he said, turning back to his work.

“Please?” he said quietly, hoping it would get Sherlock’s attention.

He turned around with his head cocked to one side and eyes slightly squinted. He glanced at Greg for only a second before saying, “Oh, that. Was I right?”

“You were dead on. Thanks. I owe you a pint.”

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. “I rarely drink.”

“Right. Well, um, I owe you some vicious murder cases or something.”

He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Wonderful.” As he turned to leave, he stopped. “Wait, was that all it was? I’m surprised he ignored you over that—he seems inexplicably enchanted by you.”

Greg felt his cheeks grow warm, despite the chill in the air.

Sherlock chuckled. “Ah, it wasn’t. What did you do to upset him?”

“It’s not important,” said Greg quickly. “Oh look, I think they need you over there.” It was a pathetic attempt at diversion, doomed to fail.

“Ha, right. Tell me what you did or I’ll ask him myself.”

Greg wasn’t sure which was worse—owning up to Sherlock or having him hear it from Mycroft. Both options seemed bloody awful. He glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. “Fine. I might have got a bit drunk that Sunday, after I came back. I was upset.”

“And what? He found out about it?”

“You could say that.”

“No!” Sherlock said, his mouth falling open. “You drunk-dialled him?”

John, unfortunately, had just wandered within hearing range. “Who drunk-dialled someone?”

Greg widened his eyes, silently pleading with Sherlock not to say anything.

“One of the sergeants,” Sherlock answered, not missing a beat. “He drunk-dialled Lestrade last Sunday to tell him what he thought of his management techniques.”

“Harsh,” John said. “Bet you won’t let him forget it.”

Greg shrugged. “People do stupid things.”

Sherlock gave Greg a knowing smile. “Yes, they do. Forgive and forget—right, Lestrade?”

“’Course.”

As John and Sherlock walked back to the crime scene, Greg tapped a quick message to Sherlock: _‘Make that two pints and a whole drawer full of cases. Thanks.’_

His ‘lunchtime’ never materialised—a quick mouthful of a sandwich at the crime scene was all he could manage, certainly not a trip to the running shop. As he sat in a meeting that threatened to drag on past five, he got more and more twitchy. The shop closed at six. It wasn’t as if he _had_ to do it today, but it was one of those things… once you had it in your head, you fixated on it. He didn’t really care about his new shoes, he just really wanted to surprise Mycroft.

 _Mycroft._ He glanced at his watch again. Ten to six. He wasn’t going to make it at this rate, even though it was just a few streets away. _He said he’d phone. Maybe tonight._ The second the meeting was over, he tore out of the office. He brushed past Sally in his hurry to get down the stairs. “Sorry,” he called back over his shoulder.

“What’s the rush?”

“Gotta get to a shop before it closes. ‘Night.” His voice echoed in the open stairwell, and he caught a glimpse of her shaking her head as he took the steps two at a time.

He took off at a jog towards the shop. Running there in his work shoes wasn’t the best idea, but it was his only option if he wanted to make it in time. He burst in with two minutes to spare. The shop assistant—not the same one they’d seen previously—looked over, a little startled. “We’re about to close, sir.”

“Sorry, I know. I know exactly what I need. Would it be okay… please?” he said, a note of desperation in his voice. There was no time to buy shoes for himself; he’d have to try them on, get fitted. But he could still get shoes and gear for Mycroft.

Her shoulders slumped a little. “Yeah, okay.”

“Thanks. Thanks so much. Can you look up Mycroft Holmes’ information? He bought shoes here last week. He needs another pair.”

She frowned. “Already?”

“His house burned down and they were lost in the fire.”

“Oh my God. Really?”

“Really. He’s only just got out of the hospital and I want to get them for him as a surprise.”

“Christ,” she said, her eyes wide. “Yeah, all right. Hang on.”

While she went to get the shoes, Greg rounded up new tights and shirts, as well as a hideous fluorescent running jacket just like the one he wore. He wasn’t about to let him get run over by a car.

“All of this?” she asked, as she rang it up. “That’s a lot of stuff.”

“He’s worth it.”

He was on his way back to the office, huge bag in hand, when his phone rang. His heart skipped a beat when he saw it was Mycroft. “Hey, gorgeous! I was just thinking about you.”

There was a slight pause; embarrassment, perhaps. “Hello, Greg. Is this a good time?” He sounded awkward, and Greg was instantly on guard.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, it’s just… do you have any plans for the weekend? It seems I’m going to be in London.”

“That’s great!” It was better than great; it was fantastic. He hadn’t wanted to pressure him about any plans for the weekend, but if Mycroft initiated it… “I’d love to see you. What’s going on?”

“The insurance people are letting me go through my flat to see what’s left. I’ll be coming in on Saturday. Perhaps we could meet up afterwards?”

He was hoping for more than ‘meeting up’—and not just sexually. He wanted to at least spend the day with him. His brain flew through the options as he tried to figure out how to balance ‘needy’ with ‘enthusiastic’. “Could you use some help?”

Mycroft paused again, just for a second. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Great! How are things going?” He slipped into an alleyway to shield himself from the traffic noise. “Anything exciting?”

“Not particularly. My parents dropped by this morning. Other than that, just work.”

“Yeah, same here. Well, not with the parents. That would be odd, considering they’re dead.” He winced as the words came out of his mouth. One day, he’d learn to think before he spoke so he didn’t sound like a complete idiot. “Sorry. When are you getting in?”

Mycroft chuckled. “I’d planned to get to the house by ten, but I can change that if it’s too early.”

“No, no; that’s fine. Do you need a… I don’t know, a van or something? For the stuff?”

“No, nothing like that. There are only a few things I want, and they’ll fit in the car.”

“You’re driving?”

“Sort of. I’m getting a car at the airport. I can stop by and pick you up if you’d like.”

“That’d be great. I’ll text you the address, yeah?”

“Of course. I’ll meet you at ten.”

Greg suddenly found himself at a loss for things to say. Asking about his health seemed silly when he’d only seen him yesterday. “It’ll be good to see you.”

“You too,” Mycroft said, and Greg thought he detected a note of fondness in his voice.

“Hey,” Greg said, before Mycroft could say goodbye, “is it okay if I phone you tomorrow? You know, to see how the doctor thing goes?” He didn’t want to crowd Mycroft, but he didn’t want him to think he was ignoring him either.

“Of course. Thank you. I should let you go; it sounds like you’re trying to get home.”

“Just running some errands. Talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Looking forward to it.”

As he texted his address to Mycroft, he felt a twinge of panic; he hadn’t thought about Mycroft seeing where he lived. His one-bedroom flat wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t much to look at. Then he thought back to their conversation about money from the previous day and smiled. Mycroft could probably care less.

* * *

Mycroft was still grinning with relief when he received the text with Greg’s address. The phone call had gone better than he’d expected: Greg had not only agreed to meet him but seemed eager to do so.

For all of his outward self-confidence, he still felt like a nervous schoolboy as far as their relationship was concerned. He’d already nearly lost him once. He didn’t want it to happen again.

* * *

Greg sailed through Friday. Nothing phased him, not even Sherlock. He phoned Mycroft mid-afternoon and found out that his doctor had cleared him to come back the following Thursday. Their five-minute chat went far better than the previous day’s conversation: Mycroft didn’t sound terrified, and Greg didn’t make any unfortunate comments about dead relatives. Things were looking up. Just before he was about to leave, Sally cornered him in his office. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to her since he’d run off to Mycroft’s house to clear things up.

“So, how’d things go on Wednesday?”

“Good. We got everything worked out. Thanks for convincing me to go.” The corners of his lips curled into a grin as he remembered how they’d made up.

“So whose fault was it?”

“Depends on who you ask. I think it was mine, and he thinks it was his.”

“Hang on,” she said, frowning, “isn’t that backwards?”

“Turns out we’re both a couple of idiots, just in different ways.”

“And your way?”

“Let’s just say you should confiscate my mobile when I’m drunk.”

She winced. “Do I want to know?”

“I’m not going to tell you, but I’m sure it’s not hard to figure out.”

“That was rhetorical.”

“Yeah, I know. I wasn’t joking about the phone thing though.”

“So you’re not upset with him anymore?”

“No. I’m seeing him this weekend. He’s coming in to salvage things from his flat.”

“Christ,” she said, shaking her head, “I can’t even imagine.”

“He’s not as emotional as most people, not for stuff like that.”

“Yeah, well, look who he’s related to.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Sorry,” she said, raising her palms in front of her. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Greg sighed. “I’m a grown-up and he makes me happy. Don’t ruin it, yeah?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“You doing anything this weekend?” Greg asked, wanting to change the subject.

She wrinkled her nose. “Not much. Catching up on errands.”

“Well, try and do something fun.”

“Yeah, you too,” she answered, giving him a cheeky smile as she swivelled around and walked out of the office.


	8. Chapter 8

Greg shoved the last of his clean washing into the appropriate drawers just as Mycroft arrived—precisely on time. He was glad he’d woken up early to give the place a bit of a once-over; the kitchen was spotless for a change. His one-bedroom flat wasn’t flashy, but it wasn’t ‘squalid’, either. His bathroom had an actual bath, for one. A comfy sofa dominated the living room and there was a small table in the adjoining kitchen.

It took him by surprise when Mycroft drove up in a sleek-looking Mercedes outside his flat. When he'd said he’d be ‘getting a car from the airport’, he’d expected it to be chauffeured; no one drove in London if they didn’t have to.

“Morning gorgeous. Didn’t think you did your own driving in the city?”

“One of my many hidden talents,” Mycroft replied with a teasing smile.

“Want to come in for some tea? I got you some of the good stuff. Or we can get going, it’s up to you.”

“Tea would be lovely. It took longer than I expected to get here.”

“Really? You’re right on time.”

“I can bend time to my will. It’s another hidden talent.”

“You’re full of them,” he said with a chuckle. He’d worried Mycroft would be unsettled by the idea of seeing his burned-out flat, but it didn’t seem to have affected his mood. “Come in. I, um, know it’s not what you’re used to.”

“That’s not a bad thing.” He smiled and gave him a quick kiss.

“Oh, hey, I got you something. Hang on a sec.” He went into the bedroom and grabbed the bag from the running shop. “Here.”

Mycroft, seeing the shoe box, looked at him with surprise. “Are these—?”

“The same shoes,” Greg said, grinning like mad. “They keep the info at the shop. I didn’t even have to hack the Global Shoe Tracking Database.”

Chuckling, Mycroft took out a shoe and turned it over in his hands as if it were one of his expensive Italian dress shoes.

“If they don’t fit quite right, we can take them back, but they should be exactly the same. I had to guess on the sizes for the other things, but I think they’ll work.”

Mycroft looked up at him with a fond smile. “Thank you, Greg. This is so unexpected.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

“Of course. I’m incredibly touched.”

“I know you’re still recovering, but we can start anytime you want. Well, as soon as your doctor signs off on it.” Greg reached into the bag and pulled out the hideous fluorescent windbreaker.

Mycroft winced, just for a fraction of a second, and then recovered—schooling his features into a smile.

“Don’t worry, I know it’s awful. I’ve got one just like it. It’s stopped me from being run over a few times, and I don’t want anything else to happen to you.”

“It’s not my usual colour,” Mycroft conceded with a smirk, “but for you, I suppose I can make an exception.”

Greg beamed. He went over to the kitchen and took out the two tins of tea he’d bought: one Darjeeling and one Assam. He’d bought the most expensive ones at the good supermarket, hoping for the best. He’d bought a teapot as well. Not that he was trying to impress him or anything _._ “Either of these work for you?” he said, holding them out for inspection.

“Oh, the Assam would be lovely. The Darjeeling is lighter, more of an afternoon tea.”

“Huh. Never knew that. Here, show me how strong you like it.” He’d never known if the ‘instructions’ he’d followed at the manor suited Mycroft’s tastes or not.

Mycroft added a few teaspoons to the pot and asked, “Are you having any?”

When he replied, “Yeah, living on the edge,” Mycroft added one more. The resulting tea was delicious, but a little stronger than the stuff he’d made at the manor. If his mum had made tea like this, he probably wouldn’t have switched to coffee.

“Very nice,” Mycroft said, after taking a sip.

“Yeah. Maybe I’ve been missing something all these years.”

Mycroft smiled as if he’d made a convert. It was possible he had—at least partially.

They were still enjoying their tea when his freezer interrupted them. _Whoosh._

Mycroft looked around to see where the noise had come from.

“Oh, um, sorry about that. It does that sometimes. I’ve been meaning to get a new one, but it still works and I’ve got used to it.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Mycroft looked embarrassed.

Greg shrugged it off. “It’s fine. You ready to go and do this?”

“I think you’re dreading it more than I am.”

As they drove the few miles to his flat, Greg asked him what he hoped to find there.

“A painting I had. A Turner.”

Greg cocked his head, racking his brain trying to figure out who ‘Turner’ was. He wasn’t really up on his art, so it was no shock he was coming up blank. “What’s it of?” he asked, hoping it would be something he could relate to and not an abstract piece.

“It’s a watercolour sketch of Dartmouth, down on the coast. It belonged to my grandmother.”

_Old, then._ “Oh my God,” he blurted out, “ _that_ Turner? JMW?” He’d seen the famous artist’s paintings when an old boyfriend had dragged him to the Tate Britain one afternoon.

Mycroft nodded.

“Christ. I can see why you’d want to find it.”

“It’s the only thing of sentimental value I kept there.”

“It must be worth a fortune.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Probably. I never had it appraised. If it didn’t burn it’s probably water-damaged, but I’d still like to find it if I can.”

A representative from the insurance firm met them at the burned-out shell of his flat. “The building is structurally sound, so you’re free to go anywhere you want. I’ll be out here if you need anything.” He handed them Tyvek suits, shoe covers, and dust masks. “You’ll want to wear these—especially you,” he said, nodding at Mycroft. “Don’t need anything else in your lungs.”

Greg was familiar with the awkward Tyvek garments from crime scenes, and he slipped into it effortlessly. Mycroft, on the other hand, was still trying to figure out a way in. “Here, let me see it. There’s a trick.” He took it from him, grasped two spots of the neatly-folded Tyvek square, and snapped his hands down sharply. The motion—similar to shaking the wrinkles out of a shirt—opened the one-piece suit like a piece of reverse origami. Now it looked like a ghostly human shell… with a zip up the front.

“Thanks.”

“Now you can blend in at crime scenes,” Greg joked.

“I can already blend in anywhere,” Mycroft replied with a raised eyebrow, “I’m a master of disguise.”

This completely threw the insurance representative. “Um, sir?” he said tentatively. “You are Mr Holmes, correct?”

Mycroft stopped exchanging smirks with Greg long enough to turn around and assure him that he was, in fact, the distinguished individual who owned this remarkable piece _(former piece)_ of real estate.

“He thinks you’re acting like a teenager,” Greg stage-whispered behind him.

Mycroft blindly slapped the air behind him in an effort to make him stop.

“Now you _are_ acting like a teenager,” Greg added.

“Shhh!” Turning his attention to the man, he said, “I’m so sorry. He had a little too much sugar in his tea this morning.”

“No, all I had was milk,” he stage-whispered back.

The man gave them a strained, nervous smile. Then, apparently convinced he wasn’t turning over the remains of the flat to a couple of middle-aged hoodlums _(or too disturbed to care)_ , he walked back to his car, muttering.

“Sorry,” said Greg, still smirking. “You have to admit it was a bit funny. Right?”

Mycroft chuckled. “No one’s ever questioned my identity before.”

“That’s because you’re,” Greg paused for dramatic effect, “A Master of Disguise.”

“You’re so odd.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Their mood changed abruptly as they crossed the threshold into Mycroft’s former home. Neither of them were prepared for the sight that greeted them—charred husks of furniture, unidentifiable lumps, and smoke stains on the walls. The left side of the house was relatively unscathed by fire damage, but water stains marred the surfaces of the walls and furniture. The house smelled like mould; Greg could see why they needed masks. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. It was worse than he’d expected.

Mycroft’s eyes were wide, but he didn’t say anything.

“You okay?”

Mycroft nodded. “Upstairs.”

Thankfully, the fire had spared the staircase, and they climbed to the next floor. He followed Mycroft into the living room and tracked his gaze to a framed picture. Even though the mask hid most of his face, his smile was evident in the small creases around his eyes.

Reverently, Mycroft took it from the smoke-stained wall. Wiping a light layer of soot from the glass, he let out a soft laugh. “It’s all right. I can’t believe it.” He turned it over, checking the frame for damage. “Getting it framed properly was worth it. It doesn’t even look like it got wet.” His voice was choked-up with emotion.

“I’m so glad.” Greg said, unsure of how to reply. “Which grandmother owned it?” he added, trying to prevent an awkward silence from taking hold.

“My father’s mother. She grew up there.”

The watercolour seemed to be painted with an effortless grace, somehow capturing the essence of the town with a minimal number of strokes. A soft light permeated the image, something he remembered seeing in Turner’s famous oil paintings. “That’s quite something. It’s gorgeous.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’m so glad it’s not ruined.” He held it out towards Greg. “Could you take this for a minute?”

“Um, sure,” he said, glancing around to make sure there was nothing to trip on, terrified he’d drop it somehow.

Mycroft walked over to the television and gave a short, approving laugh. “Amazing.”

“What?”

Sitting next to the television, still in its case, was the _Hot Fuzz_ DVD—apparently undamaged except for a layer of soot and its wrinkled, water-damaged cover.

“Oh my God,” said Greg, “I can’t believe it didn’t melt.”

“This side of the house seems to be mostly smoke and water damage.” He picked it up. “Shall we go?”

“That’s all you wanted? Aren’t there other things?”

“I wanted the painting and I’d hoped to find your DVD. Everything else is replaceable.”

“The DVD was replaceable.”

“That’s not the point. Would you like me to take that?” he said, motioning towards the painting. “You have a death grip on it. I’m sure it won’t leap out of your hands, but I’d like to spare you the worry.” He seemed just as concerned about Greg’s feelings as he was about the safety of the painting.

He gave it to him, silently relieved he wouldn’t have to walk down the stairs with it. “Yeah, I can do less damage to the DVD.”

* * *

They were both relieved to be back out on the bright, busy street. The place had seemed like a tomb.

Back at his flat, they examined Mycroft’s new running kit and made tea, trying to forget the disturbing images from Mycroft’s house. He suggested a Mediterranean takeaway place for lunch, secretly hoping to watch him eat with his fingers. It wasn’t much more than a hole in the wall—it didn’t even have seating—but it had a steady flow of traffic and the delicious aroma of spices and garlic wafted out onto the street.

“What do you normally get?” Mycroft asked, looking at the menu board above the till.

“The lamb shawarma on lavash.”

“What’s that, exactly?”

“Um, it’s lamb and some veg, and a tahini sauce thing. It’s really good.” He rocked back on his heels and tried to look convincing. “You, er, don’t mind garlic, do you?”

“Not at all.”

“That’s a relief.”

“I’ll try the chicken shawarma,” Mycroft said to the woman at the till.

Greg beamed. They walked back to his flat, Greg idly swinging the plastic bag and not sure if his mouth was watering at the prospect of lunch or the idea of watching Mycroft eat. As he grabbed some plates, Mycroft started to unwrap the foil containing the loosely-held sandwich. “No, don’t do that or it’ll go everywhere.” _Perhaps I shouldn’t have stopped him. Damn_. “Here, fold that down and wrap it around like this. It keeps it in one piece.”

“I see,” Mycroft said, following Greg’s lead. He leaned back a little, keeping the sandwich at arm’s length.

“It’s not going to bite,” Greg teased. Still, he was relieved that Mycroft had worn ‘casual’ clothes. He’d hate to be responsible for ruining one of his expensive shirts if the sauce dripped.

Mycroft was still giving it a suspicious look when he took his first tenuous bite—and then he gave a little moan and his look turned positively rapturous. “My God, that’s delicious,” he said, as soon as he’d swallowed the food.

“You like?” Greg said, all innocence.

Mycroft nodded as his tongue delicately darted out to lick a tiny drop of sauce from his lip; Greg hoped he wouldn’t see the napkins in the bottom of the bag. _The perfect date food. Don’t stare at his mouth._ The more he thought about it, the harder it was to stop. Desperate for distraction, he tore into his food with abandon, savouring the marinated lamb and the way the tahini soaked into the thick bread.

Mycroft took tiny, delicate bites, trying not to make a mess, but a particularly large chunk of tomato got the better of him. “Sorry,” he said in a muffled voice as he tried to eat the entire piece in one go. He put his hand in front of his mouth as he chewed.

“Don’t worry, you can’t eat these things without making a mess. Dig in.” Greg licked some sauce from his fingers, hoping his atrocious habits would subtly encourage Mycroft to follow suit. _I wonder if that thing about people copying your body language actually works?_

Mycroft took another, slightly larger bite; a little of the sauce spilled over the edge of the foil and dripped down a long, elegant finger. Maddeningly, he didn’t do anything about it. Greg watched, transfixed. He forced himself to look back at Mycroft’s face and tried to ignore the thoughts creeping into his head. He failed. Spectacularly. Curious to test his ‘mirroring’ theory, he tipped his sandwich a little and let a piece of lamb fall onto his plate. Then, hoping Mycroft would notice, he picked it up and popped it in his mouth, sucking the ends of his fingers clean. Much to his disappointment, Mycroft’s sandwich stayed resolutely inside of its wrapper. A little more sauce spilled over the edge though, and Mycroft looked around for something to wipe his hands. “Um, sorry. I probably have a clean tea-towel. Let me get one,” he said amiably, secretly hoping it sounded like an imposition. The paper napkins were just out of Mycroft’s sight, and with any luck he hadn’t noticed them when Greg unpacked the food.

“No, it’s quite all right,” Mycroft said, and Greg’s machinations were rewarded as Mycroft sucked his fingers clean of the sauce.

Greg stared. Openly. Just for a few seconds. His stomach did odd things that had nothing to do with lunch.

Mycroft seemed to sense it and looked up. “Sorry; forgive my atrocious manners.”

“Oh… no, it’s no problem. They’re messy to eat.” _Smooth, you idiot. Stop staring and make conversation._ “I love the way they marinate this; it’s so tender.” Then—in a moment of pure genius—added, “Want to try a bit?”

And that was the lovely thing about Mycroft being so polite… it made him unlikely to say ‘no’.

“All right.”

He plucked a juicy piece of lamb from his shawarma and held it out to him. Mycroft’s hands were full with his own sandwich, and Greg ‘helpfully’ brought it up to his lips so he wouldn’t have to put it down. Mycroft paused for a second and made eye contact. Then, gaze unwavering, he leaned in and delicately took it from Greg’s fingers with his teeth. Soft lips brushed his fingertips, and Greg had to stifle a small moan. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one playing this game. In fact, it was possible he’d been losing all along.

Mycroft held his gaze as he slowly chewed and then swallowed the piece of lamb. “You’re right; that’s delicious,” he said, finally breaking eye contact and giving Greg silent permission to do the same.

Sometime between when the sauce had first dribbled onto Mycroft’s fingers and now, Greg’s trousers had shrunk. He shifted in his seat to get more comfortable, trying to be subtle. _As if he misses anything._ If shawarma had this effect on everyone, there’d be lines all the way down the road. Too bad for the owners that it was Mycroft—and not the food—that was making him so hard.

“Would you like some of mine?” Mycroft asked.

Of course he said ‘yes’. Who wouldn’t?

Mycroft brought the piece of chicken tantalisingly close to his lips, and they locked eyes once again. When Greg leaned forward to take it from him, Mycroft pulled it back with a filthy smile. “Say please,” he said, his voice sounding like sex itself.

_Lost. I’ve definitely lost._ He dropped his sandwich on his plate and reached across the table to grab Mycroft’s wrist. “I’m not sure which I’m begging for,” he said. “Food or sex?”

“Both, if you play your cards right.” The sly grin on Mycroft’s face made his toes curl.

Greg took the piece of chicken from him and popped it in his mouth. “I know this stuff is good, but I’d rather have you any day.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Hopefully into my bedroom,” he replied, glancing towards the back of his flat with a cheeky grin. “When were you on to me?”

“Well, I suspected you had ulterior motives when you wanted me to eat with without utensils, but when you offered me a tea-towel instead of one of the napkins, I knew I had you.”

“Oh. So you noticed those, then?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Not exactly subtle. Not that I minded. Also, has anyone ever told you you’d be terrible at poker?”

“You bastard,” he said, smiling.

“Losing isn’t the end of the world, is it? Besides, I’d say it’s more of a draw.” He got up and headed for the kitchen sink to wash his hands.

“Hang on,” Greg said, pulling him towards the bedroom, “I can clean those off for you.”

* * *

They lay on Greg’s smallish bed, awash in the afterglow of their post-lunch sex. Well, mid-lunch sex. They’d never finished their shawarma. Greg was glad he’d splurged on nice sheets. And that he’d washed them the day before.

“We should have lunch more often,” Mycroft said, rubbing his foot contentedly along Greg’s calf.

“Mm. Think we’d ever make it through the whole thing?”

“Not without effort. Do you mind?”

“Hardly,” Greg said with a laugh. He turned onto his side to face Mycroft, propping his head up on his arm. “When are you going back?”

“I’d booked the flight for six, but it’s nothing I can’t change.”

“Do you want to stay over? We could go for a jog tomorrow.” It couldn’t hurt to ask.

Mycroft was quiet for a second, and Greg quickly added, “You don’t have to. It’s just a thought.”

“No, it sounds lovely, but this afternoon… well, I already have an appointment. I hope you don’t mind; I didn’t want to presume.”

“Presume?”

“That you’d want to spend the day with me. It’s just that I have to get this other thing done…”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine,” he said, running his free hand across the freckles on Mycroft’s shoulder. He leaned in for a gentle kiss, unhurried and soft, almost the opposite of their ‘shawarma sex’. Both were amazing.

“I’d ask you to come with me, but I don’t want to send the wrong message.”

Now Greg was intrigued. “How so?”

“I’m house-shopping.”

Greg blinked. “Right. S’pose that could be a bit awkward.”

“I’ve decided to sell the flat. Buy something on a quieter road.”

“Can you do that? I mean, it’s not rebuilt yet.”

“They’ve already found a buyer who’s willing to wait. The place I’m considering is a little smaller, so I’ll even come out ahead.”

“Bloody hell, that’s fantastic.”

Mycroft smiled. “It is, rather.”

“Wait, ‘smaller’. Sort of like your _small_ jet?” Greg teased.

Mycroft shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“So you’ve got an appointment to see it today?”

“Mm. And as long as you don’t take it as some sort of awkward offer of cohabitation, you’re welcome to join me.”

He grinned. “Yeah, all right.”

“This way I’ll be able to make sure you like it. A second opinion, as it were.”

Greg eyed him suspiciously. “You sure this isn’t an offer?”

“I might be eccentric, but I’m not—what is it Sergeant Donovan calls me? A loony?”

Greg bit his lip to stem the laughter that threatened. “She prefers the phrase ‘posh loony’. Wait, how do you know about—”

“I have my sources.”

“Not sure I want to know.”

“Probably better that you don’t. So you’ll join me?”

“Yeah, it’ll be fun. The only nice houses I see usually have dead bodies in them.”

“Mm. I’d be surprised to find any corpses in this one.”

“Where is it?”

“Kensington.”

“Were you going to drive?”

“I hadn’t decided. It’s a nice day out; we could probably walk.”

“Do you have the address? I think my new phone has a map thing.” He brought up the location on his screen and did a double take. “Bloody hell! Do you know where this is?”

“Well, unless it’s moved it since I checked, yes.”

“How can you possibly come out ahead by moving here? It’s right by Kensington Palace.”

“As I said, it’s quite a bit smaller.”

Somehow, Greg didn’t think his idea of ‘quite a bit’ would match his own. “It’s about a mile away. We can avoid the main road for most of it.”

The spring sun did its best to keep them warm on the way there, but by the time they arrived, they were both a little chilly.

“Sorry,” Mycroft said, “walking might have been a bad idea.”

“We could always take the tube back.” Then he frowned and added, “Have you ever taken the tube?”

“Yes, there have been a few memorable occasions.” He checked the time. “The estate agent should be here shortly.”

She showed up five minutes later, looking mortified when she saw Mycroft had arrived first.

“I’m so sorry; have you been waiting long?”

“Not at all. This is my friend, Greg Lestrade. Greg, Maisie Lancaster.”

Greg wondered if she thought they were buying it together. Either way, she was bright enough not to say anything.

The house was—as Mycroft had said—smaller, but it was in no way less lovely. Located on a quiet, residential street where all the houses were slightly different, it had far more personality than his old one. Although the ‘white-pillared clone’ look of his place on Cromwell Road was impressive, you practically had to look at the house number to know which one was yours. Though these were also row houses, this one was located on a corner, with a cream-coloured finish and even a tiny hedge. Between it and the adjoining house, there was a two-storey addition with a rooftop garden.

“Not what I was expecting,” Greg said.

“Good or bad?”

“Good, definitely. And the location… Christ.”

The location was amazing, about a third of a mile from Kensington Gardens in one direction and the same distance to the tube station in another. Maisie gave them a tour, then left them to their own devices while she waited outside.

“What do you think?” Mycroft asked.

“You’re joking, right? It’s gorgeous.”

“I’d been worried about the size before I saw it, but I think it’ll be more than adequate.”

Greg looked around the master suite that took up most of one floor and smiled. “Probably.”

“To be honest,” Mycroft continued, “there were rooms in my old flat I didn’t even use. I’m not sure why I bought it.”

“So you’d end up meeting me,” Greg joked.

Mycroft gave a soft chuckle. “There is that.”

They went downstairs and out onto the small rooftop garden. It wasn’t situated high enough for a view, but planters of bamboo shielded it from the road and created a small, private oasis. The current occupant had favoured a ‘Zen garden’ aesthetic, pairing a ‘sea’ of rocks with a lovely Japanese maple in a massive pot. Two chairs sat next to a small, wooden table on a flagstone patio area in the centre.

“Well this is—” Greg started, then words failed him.

“What?”

“Lovely. But unexpected. I mean, you can’t even see this from the road.”

“By design, I’m sure,” Mycroft said wryly.

“It’d be fantastic in the summer. Look, there’s even a hole in the middle of the table for an umbrella.” Then he had a vision of Mycroft’s black umbrella on steroids and chuckled. “I’ll bet with your brolly connections you could have one custom built so you could sit out here in the rain if you wanted to. Have it look just like your other one, only bigger.”

Mycroft gave him a sideways glance, brow furrowed, and Greg wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Sometimes his absurd trains of thought were better left unspoken. _Probably thinks I’m nuts._ “Not that you’d sit in the rain. Especially with this perfectly nice house.” _Just shut up._ “Sorry. Ignore me.”

Mycroft turned to face him and cocked his head. He gave Greg an amused smile and shifted his weight onto one hip, as if settling in for a long conversation. “I would never ignore you. Please, go on.”

Greg felt his cheeks grow warm and he shifted under the scrutiny. It was nice to have someone’s full attention—unless you were making a complete arse of yourself, inadvertently or otherwise. It hadn’t even been an attempt at humour, more a lack of internal filter on the mad thoughts that flitted through his mind sometimes. “I was just being silly. I’ll try and keep the random nonsense to myself.”

“Please don’t. Everyone else is so careful what they say around me. It makes a refreshing change. Besides, you’re funny.”

“Most people just say ‘inappropriate’.”

“See—case in point,” Mycroft said, grinning. “I need more humour in my life.”

They walked back inside and Greg said, “So, do you think you’re going to get it or will you look at other places first?”

“Well, having seen it in person, I think I could be quite happy here, although I did have a couple of others in mind.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s one closer to my old house, and another on Kensington Square, but they’re both much larger.”

Greg nodded.

“I like the scale of this better, and the location is quieter. I hated the traffic on Cromwell Road.”

“Yeah, this is nice and quiet, and you’re close to the park if you want to go running. Shame it doesn’t open until six.”

Mycroft shot him a wicked grin. “That is _currently_ the case, yes.”

“Wait, what?”

“Let’s just say that the Royal Parks office is considering a change to the hours.”

“You’re joking,” Greg said, incredulously.

Mycroft gave him a closed-mouth smile. A very smug one. “What good is power if you can’t abuse it every now and then? Entirely for the public good, of course.”

“Oh, of _course_ ,” he replied.

“I was going to surprise you when it went through, but it should only be another week or so. I thought you might enjoy having somewhere safer to run in the mornings. You’ll still have to get there, of course, but it’s not that far from your flat.”

Greg shook his head in disbelief. “You’re actually serious. They really are changing the hours?”

He nodded.

“Bloody hell. That’s—” He couldn’t think of anything coherent to say so he just said, “Christ. Thanks.”

“You’re most welcome,” he said. “I’m glad to do something useful for a change. Let’s have a look at the kitchen again before we go. I want to make sure it has enough cupboard space.”

Greg followed him, a little stunned. He was still pondering Mycroft’s terrifying scope of influence as they examined the appliances.

As Mycroft opened the fridge, he said, “The Parks director is a personal friend. I merely gave him the idea. It’s only logical that Kensington Gardens should open at the same time as Hyde Park, considering they border each other. And it’s only an hour earlier; I’m not sure why it was overlooked until now.”

Greg glanced around, wondering if he’d said something out loud.

“I can’t read minds; you just looked unsettled,” Mycroft added, answering Greg’s unspoken question. “Don’t worry, no one was harmed to improve your running experience.”

“What’s it like having that much power?”

“More boring than you’d think, which is why messing about with park opening times to surprise your boyfriend is so satisfying.”

“Well, I’m sure half the early-morning runners in central London will thank you for it as well.”

“An added benefit.” He poked his head into the adjoining pantry and murmured his approval. “Yes, this should work. All right, I think that does it. Anything else you want to see?”

“You’re the one buying the place.”

“Mm. Do you want to walk back? It’s still a bit cold.”

“Well, the tube’s near here; we could take that if you’re up for a bit of excitement. Shouldn’t be too busy right now.”

Mycroft chuckled. “All right.”

They stepped outside, where Maisie waited with a hyperactive, nervous smile. “Well, what did you think? Isn’t it just lovely?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. “I have two others I’d like to evaluate before I come to a decision. I’ll be in touch.”

Her expression faltered minutely, but she recovered almost instantly. “Of course, take all the time you need. Please let me know what I can do to help.”

“Thank you so much. Good day.”

As they started walking towards the station, she called after them, “Wait, don’t you have a car? Can I drop you somewhere?”

Greg turned to him and shrugged. “She’s offering, and it’ll be quicker.”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Mycroft said.

When they drove up to his flat, she looked confused. “Yep, this is it. Thanks!” Greg said, just in case she thought they were having her on. When they got inside, Greg chuckled. “I don’t think my flat falls into her usual price range.”

“Probably not.”

“Will you go and see those other two houses?”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose and sighed. “I suppose I should. I really liked this one, though. It’s quiet and close to the shops.”

“And the park,” Greg added. “It sounds as if you’ve already made up your mind.”

“What did you think of it?”

A small stab of panic ran through him, even though it was a perfectly innocuous question. He didn’t want his feelings to sway Mycroft one way or the other—certainly not for a purchase bigger than most people would make in their lifetime. Or three lifetimes. “It’s not really my decision.”

“I didn’t say it was, but I’d still like your opinion. I’d like to hope you’ll be spending at least a little time there.”

So did he. “Fair enough. I loved it. The location is amazing, and unless you plan on housing a football team, I think there’s plenty of space. A couple of guest bedrooms, another for an office. Lovely kitchen.”

“Mm. The kitchen was nice.”

“And that garden was amazing. It’d be like having your own little park, but without all the people.”

“And I almost never have guests, so I’d re-purpose some of those bedrooms.”

“You need one for your secret world domination lair?” Greg teased.

“No, I can do that from my office,” Mycroft fired back, amused. “I was thinking more along the lines of an exercise room.”

“Oh, that’s not nearly as interesting.”

“I don’t know. I’m sure a treadmill could be used as an interrogation device in a pinch.”

“You’re _sure_ you’re not still a spy?”

“You think I’d be allowed to tell you if I was?”

“I could make you tell me; I can be extremely convincing,” Greg said. “You’re not the only one with interrogation skills, you know. You seemed to enjoy them in the car on the day we met.”

Their banter came to a screeching halt as Mycroft took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes,” he replied in a measured voice. “I certainly did.” He chewed on his lower lip nervously as a flush rose up his neck. “Perhaps you should try and extract the information from me.”

Greg’s mind was suddenly not on the house. Not at all. He glanced at Mycroft, who looked as wrecked as he felt. His gut throbbed as he thought of the possibilities. “Interrogations can get rough. Are you sure?” He was pretty sure they were on the same page, but he wanted to make sure. Mycroft nodded, his breathing shallow. He wanted to tie him to a chair and tease him until he begged. He fought the haze of arousal and tried to remember if he had any rope. He did a quick mental inventory of the kitchen cupboard and he realised he didn’t. _Damn_. Then he had an idea. “Get up. Hands behind your head.”

Mycroft stood up slowly, hesitantly. With his hands in place, he said, “There’s no call for anything rash, Detective.”

“That’s ‘Detective Inspector’, but you’ll be calling me ‘Sir’. Got that?”

Mycroft nodded.

“I said, ‘Got that?’”

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“Better. Now, go in the bedroom and get on your knees. If you try anything, I’ll have you pinned so fast it’ll make your head spin.” He found himself hoping Mycroft would try to get away. He wanted to press him against the wall and feel his heart race.

Mycroft moved towards the bedroom and Greg grabbed one of the wooden kitchen chairs. As soon as Mycroft heard the scrape of the legs on the floor, he turned and made a break for the front door.

Greg dropped the chair and it clattered to the ground. He threw himself in Mycroft’s direction, using his momentum to push him up against the wall. Leaning in close, he whispered menacingly, “I thought I told you not to try anything. If you want to make this difficult, I’ve got no problem with that. I’m used to dealing with your type.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say.” He grabbed his wrists and pushed him towards the bedroom. “Let’s try this again. Kneel on the floor.” He was glad he’d thought to vacuum the previous day. “Hands behind your head.” Mycroft complied immediately. “Good, you’re learning. Now don’t move.” He shut the bedroom door behind him and went to the airing cupboard to get one of the old sheets he’d been meaning to donate. Then he went back to the kitchen to get the toppled chair. Despite his arousal, he thought far enough ahead to grab a pair of blunt scissors from the kitchen drawer as well. When he returned to the bedroom, Mycroft was still kneeling at the foot of his bed.

Greg sat on the edge of the bed and started to rip the cotton sheets into strips.

As the first sound rent the air, Mycroft twisted his head to look at him.

“Didn’t have any rope, but these’ll work even better,” he said with a predatory grin. He tore off a few more. _Plenty._ “Right, get up, and put your hands behind your back.”

When Mycroft faced him, he looked even more wrecked than before. Their scuffle in the living room had left his normally immaculate hair in disarray and his cheeks flushed. Even more telling, his trousers strained at their zip. Greg couldn’t help but smile.

Mycroft grinned back and Greg started to chuckle, both of them completely falling out of character.

Greg pulled his hand down over his face and took a deep breath, trying to pull himself back into the role.

“You’re not taking this interrogation very seriously, Detective,” Mycroft said, sounding concerned.

“Sir,” he corrected him.

“Sir Detective,” Mycroft deadpanned.

Greg completely lost his remaining composure, dissolving into a fit of giggles. He laughed so hard his whole chest shook, and after a few seconds he was struggling to breathe properly. Mycroft was laughing just as hard as he was. Greg gave up on the whole acting thing and grabbed him, pulling him down onto the bed. As they faced each other, he kissed away the lingering chuckles. “You’re bloody awful at role-playing,” he told Mycroft, “not that I mind.”

“I’m not sure I’m at fault. You’re the one who couldn’t hold it together, if I recall.”

“’Sir Detective’? How did you expect me to keep a straight face?”

A smug grin lit up Mycroft’s features. “I think it means I won the interrogation.”

“Oh, I don’t know—you’re in my bed. I think it’s a draw.”

Smiling, Mycroft leaned in and kissed him. It was gentle and unhurried, with an easy familiarity to it, even though they were both still aroused.

“You know, I just realised something,” Mycroft said.

“Hm?”

“You make me laugh—and I mean truly, _actually_ laugh. I’ve never had that before. I usually don’t get beyond ‘detached cynical amusement’.”

The loneliness of it cut Greg like a knife.

“Ever since you ran past my window in slow motion… I don’t know; it was the first time I’d felt any real joy in ages.”

“I don’t even know what came over me. I just wanted to make you laugh.”

“It worked.”

Greg reached out and took Mycroft’s hand in his own, bringing it up to his mouth and kissing it softly. He closed his eyes, drinking in the warmth of Mycroft’s skin against his face and placed gentle kisses on his knuckles, and fingers, and then the back of his hand, rubbing his face across it almost like a cat. Opening his eyes, he gazed at the lovely man before him. He felt just as grateful as Mycroft and, as usual, he didn’t know how to express himself. “I’d given up on finding anyone, then you started stalking me and I’ve never been happier.”

Mycroft beamed. “That’s the other thing.”

He tipped his head and frowned. “What?”

“You’re the only person outside my family who isn’t afraid to tell me what they really think.”

“What? That you were stalking me?” he teased.

“Perhaps a little. More like ‘gathering information’—it’s part of the job.”

“Well, it’s not part of mine,” Greg replied.

Mycroft cocked his head, confused. “What isn’t?”

“Tying people up and ‘extracting information’, but I’m sure I can make an exception.”

“Do your worst, Detective.” It was a playful challenge.

“Yeah? I might have to get rough with you.”

“Promises, promises,” Mycroft replied with a wicked grin.

* * *

“It seems like we keep ending up in bed together,” Mycroft said, absently running his hand along Greg’s thigh.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Greg replied with a kiss, shutting him up.

“Perhaps we’re making up for lost time?”

“Maybe. I think it’s got more to do with you being a sexy bastard. I can’t control myself when I’m around you.”

Mycroft melted as Greg did that thing with his eyebrow and the smirk—the smile that seemed like a dare while simultaneously being what Sherlock termed an ‘eyefuck’. It was a vulgar term, but so accurate. Greg could give him that look in the middle of a government meeting and he’d forget how to speak. He moved his hand onto Greg’s arse and gave it a firm squeeze. “God, you’re sexy. It’s entirely unfair.”

“I thought we were talking about you, Mr Sex-on-Legs.”

“We’re ridiculous, you know,” Mycroft said fondly. “We’re acting like a couple of teenagers.”

Greg chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Isn’t it great?”

Mycroft rolled onto his back, laughing. “It’s bloody fantastic.”

“So, I know you were going to go back tonight, but do you want to stay over?”

He thought for a moment. “I’d love to. And I could go and see those other houses tomorrow.” Frowning, he added, “I don’t have a change of clothes though.”

“Like they’ll say anything. Besides, I can give you a fresh pair of underwear, and no one will know the difference.”

“True.”

“And we could go out for a walk in the morning; you could wear your new running kit. Can’t promise I’ll be able to keep my hands off you, but I’ll restrain myself in public.”

That cheeky grin again. Completely disarming. _If we could weaponise that—dear God. It would bring entire armies to their knees._ “Tease.”

“Not if I follow through. So can you stay?”

“How could I not? You make a compelling case.”

“Good,” Greg said, giving him a quick kiss.

“I suppose we should get up and pretend to be adults.”

“Highly overrated,” he said, but he swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up. He took two pairs of clean boxers from his drawer. “Here. Easier than looking for yours.” The sheets had ended up in a tangled mess on the bed, their pants presumably somewhere within. Greg watched as he got up and pulled them on, his face falling a little as he reached for his trousers. “You don’t have to get dressed, you know. I mean, you look fabulous dressed, but you look even better half-naked.”

He frowned. “Thanks, but I think you’re biased.” Sherlock’s looks had always cast a long shadow on his own self-image, and he still found it hard to believe Greg found him truly attractive. He didn’t find himself attractive.

Greg seemed to sense his discomfort. “Sorry, don’t mind me.” He started to get dressed, and Mycroft followed suit. “What do you want to do for dinner? I know it seems like I do takeaway a lot. I s’pose I do. Want to go out?”

“I could cook.”

Greg shifted nervously. “I’m not sure I have many ingredients.”

“Wasn’t there a shop up by the station?”

“Yeah, it’s not far. You really want to cook, though? Seems like a lot of work.”

“It’d be my pleasure.” He checked the kitchen for ingredients. Greg hadn’t been lying—there wasn’t much to work with. Still, it wasn’t like he had to prepare a seven-course meal. “Are you averse to rich sauces? I could make chicken alfredo.” It was easy and delicious—but with butter, cream, and cheese, it wasn’t exactly light. Quickly, he added, “Or I could make something with a red sauce.”

“God, the cream sauce sounds wonderful. I just won’t eat for a few days.”

They walked up the road and got the few ingredients they needed. Greg picked out a bottle of wine to go with it. Within a half an hour, they were sitting at his kitchen table eating chicken with fettuccine noodles, tossed lightly with the cream sauce.

“Oh my God,” Greg said as he took his first bite, “this is amazing.” He had a sip of his wine. “When you said ‘rich sauce’ I thought it would be a lot heavier. I mean, I know it’s got cream and all, but the pasta’s not drenched in it. It’s perfect.”

Mycroft beamed at the compliment. “If you use too much sauce, it overpowers the chicken.”

“You’ll have to teach me how to cook. I mean, this didn’t take long, and I should probably eat less takeaway.”

“I’d be happy to. It’s not that difficult, just following recipes really.”

“You didn’t have a recipe for this.”

“I did originally, but it’s simple and I’ve made it often enough that I don’t have to look it up.”

“So it’s not the black art it appears to be?”

“It’s surprisingly mundane. I’ll show you how to make scrambled eggs tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, I’d love that.” Then, with that teasing ‘look’ that always made him melt, Greg added, “You’ll make a respectable cook out of me yet.”

* * *

Greg awoke to sun streaming through his bedroom window and the sound of quiet breathing next to him. _It doesn’t get much better than this._

Mycroft made the eggs; he made the toast. And tea.

“Aren’t you having coffee?”

“Your machine’s spoilt me for anything I have here,” Greg teased. “Besides, that tea yesterday was good. Want to go for a walk after breakfast?”

“Do I have to wear the reflective coat?” Mycroft asked, smiling. “I’ll look like a banana.”

“A really sexy banana. It looks like a grapefruit on me; you’ve got a better figure for fruit-themed sportswear.”

Mycroft chuckled.

“No, seriously; with all the drivers on their phones these days, we need any help we can get. You don’t have to zip it up.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Yeah. It’s critical when the light’s dim, but it’s a good idea anytime. Sorry. I sound like some bad public safety announcement.”

“No, it’s fine. I just had no idea.”

They got dressed, Mycroft in his new kit, and Greg in his still-pathetic trainers. They were sitting on his bed, tying up their shoes.

“I was going to replace these when I got yours, but the shop was closing. I know they’re disgusting.”

“I’m not worried. I’ll be too busy looking at your legs.”

“Makes two of us,” he replied, casting an appreciative stare in his direction. He ran his hand across Mycroft’s spandex-clad inner thigh and quirked an eyebrow. “We don’t have to go out, you know.”

“If I let you have your way with me every time you see me in tights, I’ll never learn how to run.”

“Huh. Good point.” He leaned over and kissed him. “Can I ravage you later?”

“Mm. It’d be my pleasure.”

“Yeah, it will,” he said, cheekily.

They set out, looking like fluorescent fruit in spandex.

“Where are we going?”

“I thought we’d head to the park. We can take the coats off there.”

“Tie them around our waists?”

“God no, that’d be a criminal waste of a view,” he said with a salacious grin. “It rolls up and goes in the back pocket of your shirt.”

“Oh, I was wondering what that was for. It seemed a bit ridiculous.”

They kept up a moderate walking pace until they got to the pond in the middle of Kensington Gardens, where Greg suggested they take a break.

“How do you feel?”

“Better than I thought I would. My lungs aren’t bothering me at all.” He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Greg looked at his phone—they’d been doing about three miles an hour. It was ‘normal walking speed’, but considering he’d been in the hospital on oxygen just over a week earlier, ‘normal’ was remarkable. “You’re doing really well. Are the shoes rubbing at all?”

“No, they feel good.”

“That’s fantastic. Your walks at the house must be paying off.”

“I feel like those were slower.”

“They probably were—more hills.”

“How fast were we just going?”

“About three miles an hour.”

“What do you think about some running?” Mycroft asked.

Greg frowned. “I’m not sure if it’s too soon; I don’t want you to hurt yourself. You should ask your doctor.”

Mycroft gave him a withering look. “She’d be horrified if she knew about the walks at the house. I don’t trust her judgement in the matter.”

“Well, I suppose if she’s letting you come back this week, she must think you’re doing well.”

“Precisely.”

“It couldn’t hurt to check out your form—and I mean that in a strictly professional sense, mind.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, with a knowing look.

Greg watched while he did a series of short jogs by the side of the pond. As soon as he saw Mycroft starting to breathe heavily, he made him stop. “That was great,” he said. “The woman at the running shop was right—you have really good instincts. I’m not sure there’s anything I’d tell you to do differently.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Do you want to sit down for a bit?”

“All right.”

They claimed one of the few remaining benches. The sun had stuck around and there were people everywhere, out for a Sunday morning stroll or walking their dogs. A few intrepid children even splashed around in the man-made pond.

“Do you deduce people like Sherlock does?”

Mycroft laughed. “Never out loud.”

“What did you deduce the first time you saw me?” If he recalled correctly, he’d been wearing baggy sweatpants and looking half-dead.

Mycroft gave a quiet murmur of a laugh. His eyes focused off in the distance as he smiled, remembering. After a couple seconds, he turned to face him. “Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

“Not a damned thing. I couldn’t think straight—first time in my life it’d ever happened.”

He reached out and rested his hand on top of Mycroft’s, wondering what he’d done to get so lucky.

They lazed in the sun and chatted idly. Greg goaded him into deducing the sordid (or not-so-sordid) lives of passing strangers. He made a few of his own, but most of them were wild fabrications, designed only to make Mycroft laugh. Their conversation was easy and relaxed; it always was now. They’d come so far since their first date, when they’d been so awkward together. “What time did you want to visit those houses? We should probably start heading back; I think it’s nearly lunchtime.”

“Mm. I’m sure they’ll bend their schedules, but I don’t want to leave it too late. Would you like to come?”

“Yeah, sounds like fun. I don’t have anything—” he started, and then with a sickening lurch realised it wasn’t true. “Oh, fuuuuuck,” he said, letting his head drop back onto his shoulders.

Mycroft sat back, startled.

“Sorry, my niece has a ballet recital thing this afternoon and I completely forgot about it. I’d ask you to come with me, but—”

“It’s no problem,” he cut in. “I’ll just head back home after I visit the houses. I don’t want to intrude.”

Greg squinted. _He never interrupts like that._ There had been a note of disappointment in Mycroft’s voice, and alarms went off in his head. Greg made his own deduction. “It’s not that.”

“It’s not what?” Mycroft asked, not coldly, but with an almost-visible wall around his emotions. The alarms wouldn’t shut up.

Greg took a deep breath, not wanting to fuck it up. “You think I don’t want you to come because I don’t want you to meet my family.”

“And?” That same, guarded look.

“You’re right, but not because I don’t want people to see us in public, or because I’m ashamed of you.”

Mycroft tipped his head slightly. “Why, then?”

“Because my sister is a homophobic twat, and I don’t want to subject you to her. I already had it out with her on the phone the other day while you were in the hospital.” Just thinking about the incident set his teeth on edge. “She still lives in the fucking dark ages,” he added, muttering.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, looking at the ground. “I shouldn’t have presumed… well, presumed anything.”

Greg gave him a rueful smile. “It’s fine. I did the same sort of thing last week, remember?”

“Well, luckily this didn’t get that far. Thank you for being so perceptive,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, well, we’re getting better at this. So yeah, my niece is lovely, but my sister is bloody miserable. We haven’t got on in years.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

Greg shrugged. “You do what you can, right? C’mon, let’s head back, or we’ll both be late.”

“Where’s the recital?”

“Out in Hounslow; I’ll take a cab. I don’t think she’d appreciate it if I showed up in my bike leathers,” he said with a chuckle.

“I’ll drive you if you’d like.”

“No, it’s really out of your way.”

“It’d be my pleasure.”

Greg briefly weighed the lengthy taxi ride against the prospect of spending that time with Mycroft. No contest. “If you’re sure, that’d be great.”

Mycroft smiled, and they started walking back to Greg’s flat.


	9. Chapter 9

Greg wanted to make sure he got there early. As fate would have it, they pulled up the rec centre at the same time Katie and Janice were walking up to the front entrance. _Damn_ , he thought, knowing Mycroft wouldn’t go unnoticed. Still, it wasn’t as if she didn’t know. “I’ll phone you when I get back to the flat, yeah?” he said, giving Mycroft a nervous smile from the passenger’s seat.

“Mm. If you’re still up for dinner, I’ll come and pick you up.”

“Thanks.” He wanted to give him a quick kiss—almost did, without thinking—but stopped himself. He took Mycroft’s hand and squeezed it. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Of course.”

“See you later, I hope.”

“Me, too.”

He hopped out of the car and hurried over to Katie, whose pink tutu was mostly covered by a puffy winter coat. He pointedly ignored Janice’s glare. “Hey, sunshine!”

“Hi, Uncle Greg!”

“Is that what you’re wearing for the recital?” he teased. “You’re going to be a bit warm.”

She giggled. “Don’t be silly. I’m not going to wear the coat.” She unzipped it. “See?”

“Oh, very pretty!”

“Do your coat back up; you’ll catch your death,” Janice scolded.

“Hi, Jan.”

“Greg,” she said, the barest possible acknowledgement.

If she wasn’t going to make an effort, neither was he.

He turned back to Katie. “You excited?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “We’ve been practising for weeks.”

“Well, you’re going to be amazing,” he said, bending down to give her a hug. “Break a leg.”

“Ow! Why would I want to break my leg?”

“Uh, sorry. It means ‘good luck’.”

She frowned at him. “Weird.”

“Come on, sweetie, we have to get ready,” Janice said, still ignoring him.

“Have fun, sunshine! I’ll see you after.”

“Thanks, Uncle Greg.”

He went inside and found a seat in the ‘auditorium’—a smallish room set up with folding chairs. He was there too early for it to be crowded and had no choice but to sit in a mostly-empty row. He’d hoped to avoid sitting next to his sister.

She joined him soon enough and laid in with her snarky interrogation. “So is that the new boyfriend?”

“His name’s Mycroft.”

“Oh, already got a new one, huh?” she said in an accusing tone.

His face twisted in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, the other week it was ‘John’.”

It clicked into place. “No, I was just using John’s phone.”

“Oh. I thought you said he was in the hospital. Looks fine to me.”

Greg sighed. This had degenerated even more quickly than he’d expected. The less said, the better, or he was likely to tell her where she could put her small-minded opinions. “The fire was two weeks ago.” 

“How can I be expected to keep track of your social life? I have a life of my own, you know.”

“Of course you do,” Greg said with a pasted-on smile, then he twisted around in his chair to face in the other direction. He fished his phone from his pocket and opened his email so he’d look busy. If he hadn’t been there to see Katie, he would have walked out.

“Don’t you ignore me.”

He ignored her. And continued to ignore her until she got up in a huff and stomped off to another seat. _She throws worse tantrums than some of the kids here._ It was worth it to see Katie though.

He’d been seeing more of Katie since her dad had walked out on them; Janice dropped her off with Greg whenever she wanted a night out. It was great to spend time with his niece, but Janice’s snide remarks and small-minded comments were an unfortunate part of the package. He wasn’t sure how much of it he could take.

The lights finally went down, and he put it all out of his mind as fifteen four-year-old girls in matching tutus twirled around at the front of the room. 

* * *

Mycroft pulled away from the kerb into the stop-and-go traffic, watching him in the rear-view mirror. Greg interacted with his niece with an ease he’d never had around children, but tension read in his shoulders as he spoke to his sister. He smiled faintly at this—not because it was funny, but because he recognised it from his own interactions with Sherlock.

On his drive back to central London, he considered the matter of the other houses. He didn’t want to visit them, didn’t need to visit them: the first one was perfect. He loved it. Greg loved it. There was no point in looking any further. He’d phone them and cancel. No reason to waste his afternoon in the company of idiots. Now he’d have time for some work at his office, as well as the quick visit he’d planned with Sherlock earlier in the day. He pulled into a ‘restricted’ parking spot just down the road from Sherlock’s flat and pulled the ‘special’ parking permit from his wallet. _The only sane way to park in London._

Sherlock answered the door in his currently-favoured dressing gown, the blue one Mycroft had given him for Christmas last year. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Of course you are. Hello, Sherlock.”

He’d already dashed back into the kitchen, from which emerged a fizzing sound and an ominous smell.

“Is that poisonous?” he asked mildly.

“Not very.”

“Where’s John?”

“Too poisonous for him. He went out.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said, and moved over to the window, cracking it slightly to let in some air. He waited patiently for Sherlock to finish his experiment; interrupting this sort of thing tended to be a bad idea.

Eventually Sherlock walked into the front room. He stared at Mycroft incredulously. “When did the government start having ‘casual Fridays’?”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Oh. Is it?” He looked genuinely confused by this. “That must be why John’s been here all day.”

“And not that I’d expect you to know, but I won’t be back at work until Thursday. I’m still out at the house.”

Sherlock frowned.

“The fire,” Mycroft added, helpfully.

His face lit up with realisation. “Right! Are you better?”

“Much improved.”

“Splendid.” Then he stepped back, examining him for clues.

“You’re slipping if it’s taking you this long,” Mycroft said, dryly.

“You arrived yesterday. You’re wearing your clothes a second day, which you never do. You’re dressed casually, so you must be here to see Greg—your suits make him uncomfortable. Your lack of normal grooming products suggests you stayed at his but hadn’t planned to.”

“What else?”

“Tell him his hair product makes your hair look odd,” Sherlock said, smirking.

He was right. It did. “I meant, what else do you deduce?”

“Well, if the stench of garlic emanating from your pores is anything to go by, you ate either Mediterranean or Italian food yesterday. Why _are_ you here?”

“I thought I’d drop by and say hello,” he said, being deliberately obtuse.

“No, in London. Shouldn’t you be out in the country breathing fresh air or something?”

“I’m buying a new house.”

Sherlock had been pacing as he talked, but at those words, he stopped in his tracks. “You’re buying one with Greg? That was quick.”

“No, I’m buying one to replace the burned-out shell of my former residence.”

“How many bedrooms does it have?”

“What makes you think I’ve already decided on a house?”

“Because you have a low tolerance for sycophantic estate agent types. You wouldn’t be here unless you’d done all your research online and found one already.”

“I’ve narrowed it down to three.”

“But you didn’t say I was wrong.” Sherlock squinted for a second. “Ah! You liked the first one and won’t bother with the other two. Why put up with additional idiots if you don’t have to?”

He gave Sherlock a wry smile. “Quite right.”

“So, how many bedrooms?”

“Five.”

“When’s he moving in?”

“As I said, he’s not.”

“Really, Mycroft? Your last house had eight. I can’t imagine you downsizing without good reason.”

“Better location.”

“Romantic interest uncomfortable with needless displays of opulence,” Sherlock countered.

The quick, accurate deduction earned Sherlock an open smile and a confession: “He’s not moving in, but I’m open to the possibility. Early days, after all.”

“I haven’t seen you this serious about someone since Philip.”

“Please,” he said with disgust, “I’d rather not talk about that.”

“Twelve years between relationships is a long time.”

“Your point?”

“Oh, I don’t know—developing a taste for beer and football, are you? Decided to fish elsewhere?”

“Now you’re just being obnoxious. I’ve developed a taste for _him._ And you of all people shouldn’t be throwing stones in that particular glass house.”

“Irrelevant.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, mostly for his own satisfaction.

“Did he tell you he phoned me?” Sherlock asked.

“He did. Thank you for explaining that to him. It seems we’re both inept at communicating.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I was speaking about Greg.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, smirking. “So, should I start thinking about wedding gifts?”

“No! And for God’s sake, don’t start insinuating that sort of thing around Greg, or I’ll tell Mummy you’ve developed an interest in religion and get her to drag you to Christmas service this year.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I never make idle threats,” he said, with a warning smile.

“I did you a favour, you know,” Sherlock said, a little petulantly.

Mycroft took a more serious tone. “For which I am eternally grateful. Being with Greg makes me realise I haven’t been truly happy in years.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied quietly. “This ‘companionship’ thing has a lot going for it. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“Thank you.” The conversation was veering into territory he wasn’t ready to explore with Sherlock. Not yet. “I must be going. I need to get some work done at my office before I head back to the house.”

“Not staying with Greg again tonight?”

His eyebrow twitched involuntarily, betraying his thoughts. He hadn’t even considered it, but of course it was out of the question.

“You should ask. You never know,” Sherlock said, deducing the obvious from Mycroft’s minute change in expression.

“Yes. Thank you, Sherlock,” he said, a little exasperated. “I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”

“Or anything else.” He smirked.

Mycroft contented himself with another eye-roll, not deeming the comment worthy of a response. “When was the last time you talked to Mummy?”

“You expect me to remember these things?”

“No, I suppose not. I’ll give her your love.”

“You always do.” Then, more seriously: “I’m glad you found him. He’s good for you.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “He is.” Then he snapped out of his reverie and smiled. “Give John my love and try not to burn down the flat. I’ll be in touch.”

* * *

His office was exactly as he’d left it—which was to say, pristine. He smiled. Soon he’d be back here properly, in control of everything once more.

_Almost everything._

One thing had spiralled out of control.

Leaning back in his chair, he pondered what Sherlock had said. His relationship with Greg had turned very serious, very quickly. Under normal circumstances, he would have fled from that level of emotional intimacy in a heartbeat—long before finding out whether or not it offered anything he needed. Ever since Philip’s infidelity and betrayal, he’d found it easier to avoid personal entanglements completely. But his stint in hospital had given Greg a ‘grace period’ of sorts—a time where he couldn’t give in to his baseless fears, the ones that said he should break things off before he got hurt; a time where he couldn’t be in complete control. And perhaps it had been the luckiest thing that had ever happened to him.

The first time he’d seen Greg run by his window, he’d been captivated. The moment Greg made him laugh with his ridiculous slow-motion stunt, he’d been won over. And now, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was utterly in love.

* * *

Greg waited around after the recital until Janice and Katie came out.

“You were fantastic, sunshine!”

“Thank you!” she said, doing another twirl in her coat-and-tutu ensemble. “Where’s the man who dropped you off? Is he a friend of yours?”

He had to give her credit—she didn’t miss a thing. She’d make a good detective someday.

“He’s nobody,” Janice snapped.

Greg glared at her, then knelt down at Katie’s level. “He’s a friend of mine, yes. He gave me a lift here so I wouldn’t have to take a taxi.”

“Oh,” she said, apparently satisfied with the answer. “Are you going to babysit for me again soon?”

“I hope so, sunshine.” Which would Janice hate more? His relationship with Mycroft or paying for a babysitter? He gave her a hug and tried not to get too worked up about it as he watched them walk back to their car.

* * *

Mycroft had already caught up on the day’s intelligence briefs and was about ten pages into a report on Russian troop movements when his mobile rang. He’d completely lost track of time.

“Hey, it’s me.”

He could tell Greg was smiling, just by the tone of his voice; it made him smile as well. “Hello ‘me’. How was the recital?”

“Katie was fabulous. Janice was… well, Janice. The less said, the better. You still looking at houses?”

“No, I decided there wasn’t much point; I’m going to buy the other one. I came in to work to get some things done.”

“Oh, sorry. Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Any interruption from you is a welcome one. Do you need a lift?”

“No, I’m in a taxi. Thanks, though. Are you still interested in dinner, or have I lost you to the British government?”

“Oh, I believe I can be dragged away from this without too much persuasion. Shall I meet you at the flat?”

“Yeah, that’d be great. What do you want for dinner?”

“I’m flexible. What did you have in mind?”

“Anything but takeaway,” Greg said, chuckling.

“Do you like steak?”

“Love it.”

“All right,” Mycroft said. “I’ll arrange it.”

“Um, do I have to dress up? Because the nicest suit I have is the one I wore to my friend’s wedding last year.”

He looked at his spare suit, hanging in a garment bag next to his coat. It was a choice between that and the shirt and slacks he’d been wearing for the past two days. No jacket. No tie. He’d never been there wearing anything less than a three-piece suit, but he didn’t want to make Greg uncomfortable. _To hell with convention._ “It won’t matter either way. I’ll explain when I get there.”

“Um, all right. See you soon.”

He picked up his office phone and said, “Yes, Mycroft Holmes here. A private dinner for two at five, please. Excellent. Thank you.” There were advantages to being a member at the Diogenes Club.

* * *

“So, um, where are we going?” Greg asked.

“My club.”

“You have a club?”

“Comes with the jet.”

“That’s a joke, right?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, giving him a playful smile. “It’s the Diogenes Club, near my office. It’s full of half-dead gentlemen even stuffier than I am, but they have a lovely private dining room.”

“But… I don’t have to dress up?”

“Not unless you want to. It’s a very private dining room.”

“Am I going to feel out of place? Honestly?” He still had on his clothes from the recital—a decent shirt and a pair of his nicer work trousers. Jacket, but no tie.

“Well, you’re more dressed up than I am at the moment. You can take off the jacket if you want.”

“I half-expected you to take off those clothes and have a three-piece suit underneath. You know, like Superman. Ready for anything.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I’d have thought you’d taken my clothes off enough times by now to know that’s not true.”

“You never know; you’re a ‘Master of Disguise’.” They shared a quick grin. He was relieved he didn’t have to wear his ‘nice’ suit; it didn’t fit quite right and he’d never been comfortable in it.

As Mycroft drove them through the streets of London, Greg couldn’t help but ask: “So, what’s with the driving?”

“Sorry?”

“Well, you had a driver going home from the hospital, you had a driver when I saw you at the crime scene, and driving anywhere in London makes most people want to gouge their eyes out. So, why are you driving?”

“Oh. Well, I enjoy it, to be honest. I spend all week being chauffeured around, working on my laptop. It’s quite refreshing to be engaged with my surroundings.”

Greg nodded thoughtfully. “So, is this one yours?”

“No, I hired it for the weekend. I don’t keep one in the city.”

“So you can use the chauffeur on the weekends?”

“If I want, yes. But I don’t like to be chauffeured on my dates. Pun intended.”

Greg chuckled. “Yeah, I’m with you on that.”

As they walked through the silent hallways of the Diogenes Club—Mycroft had explained the ‘rules’ beforehand—he felt like he’d wandered onto a film set by mistake. It was hard to believe places like this still existed. When Mycroft had said ‘private dining room’, he’d meant it literally. The room looked like a more formal version of the dining room at Mycroft’s manor, with antique furniture and a single, large table set for two.

Greg looked at him. “This is insane.”

“They have really good steak,” Mycroft countered.

“I don’t even know which fork to use.”

“I’d never had shawarma or eaten with my fingers. I think we can both agree that turned out well.”

Greg smiled. He had a point.

The steak—and the wine, and dessert, and everything else—was amazing. It was the best dinner he’d ever had. It might also have been the most expensive, but he wasn’t sure—when they got up to leave, no one came running after them for money. He looked at Mycroft, confused.

“A club amenity,” he said with a smile.

“Right.”

Once they were back in the car, he said, “So you can eat there any time you want?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Amazing.”

“It’s exceedingly dull without company,” he said, smiling. “Much improved with the right companion.”

* * *

Mycroft stared out of the window of the helicopter, the helmet shielding his ears from the _thump-thump-thump_ of the blades as he headed back to the manor. On his lap rested the Turner his weekend had ostensibly been about, but the time had turned into so much more.

So much for keeping his emotional distance.

Not that he’d tried to, mind—he just felt as if he _should_ after getting hurt by Philip.

_Well, this is what love is about, right? Makes you do foolish things._

Foolish things like laughing and having sex and enjoying himself.

_Hard to argue with it._

He already regretted their very logical decision that he’d return home instead of staying another night: Greg had to get to work early; Mycroft had an early video-conference call; he didn’t have any clean clothes—he was wearing a pair of Greg’s boxers, something which made him smile. He hadn’t wanted to impose. Intellectually, he knew he should need the mental space; that Greg wouldn’t want him around 24/7; that things were moving too quickly.

None of that changed the fact that he’d rather be curled up against Greg’s broad frame, feeling the thump of his heartbeat instead of the helicopter blades.


	10. Chapter 10

Greg’s case dragged on later and later, and by the time he got back to the office, it was already eleven. He’d promised Mycroft he’d phone him, but it seemed too late and too rude at this time of night. He stared at some paperwork, wondering if he could get away with it anyway. It had started to feel like he needed a daily fix. He compromised by sending a text; hopefully Mycroft would have his phone muted if he was asleep.

_Sorry, never-ending case. Wanted to say good night. Hope this doesn’t wake you up._

His phone rang a second later.

“Hello, Greg.” Mycroft’s voice was sinfully low with a tinge of amusement.

That was… unexpected. “Didn’t wake you up then?”

“Not exactly, no. I was just thinking about you.”

The way Mycroft said it— _dear God that voice should be illegal_ —made his groin throb.

“Yeah? Sounds promising.” He got up and closed his office door. As far as he knew, the floor was deserted, but he didn’t want to risk having someone walk in on what could be an interesting conversation. “It’s always nice to be thought of.”

“Mm. I was just thinking how much better you felt inside me than this toy.”

Greg nearly choked and had to grab onto the desk for support. That was _not_ what he’d been expecting to hear. Not that he was complaining, mind, but if someone had told him three weeks ago that Mycroft Holmes would be having phone sex with him, he’d have had them sectioned. He wasn’t sure how to reply. The near-instant arousal had short-circuited his brain. He gave an involuntary, desperate, and frankly embarrassing little moan.

“You’ve spoilt me, you know,” Mycroft continued, “I’ll never be able to use a toy again without thinking of you pushing inside me. Filling me up.”

“Oh, God,” was all he could manage as he stumbled over to his chair and collapsed into it, his legs no longer trustworthy. He was completely hard, just from the sound of Mycroft’s voice and the pictures he was painting with it. He wanted nothing more than to lean back and release his prick from his trousers and get himself off. “I… can’t,” he mumbled, “not here. I’ll get sacked.”

“Oh, you’re at work?” Mycroft sounded shocked but made a quick recovery. “No, of course you can’t, not there.” He paused for a second. “But you don’t have to, because I’m going to make you come in your trousers.”

Greg swallowed hard and pressed his hand against his fly, cupping his erection. The sheer filthiness of it only made him more aroused.

“When was the last time that happened, hm?”

“Christ. School, I think, but not like this.”

“Not with someone telling you how they worked themselves open with a toy, imagining it was you?”

“No,” he replied, his voice strained. His body screamed at him to do something. “Look, perhaps I could get to the gents?” he said, desperately.

“No. I want you where you are, sitting at your desk. You are at your desk, right?”

“Yes, damn you.”

“If I was there, I’d be on my knees in front of you, pulling your trousers down just enough to get my mouth around your lovely cock.”

“Oh, God,” Greg muttered, rubbing his hand along his length as best he could. It felt good, but it wasn’t the same as skin on skin.

“Do you think you’d be able to be quiet? I wouldn’t show you any mercy, you know.”

Greg slid down in his chair and unzipped his trousers while leaving the top button closed. He rationalised that if he didn’t get his cock out, he could still get away with it. _What the hell am I thinking?_

“I heard that, Greg; no touching. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“How the hell do you expect me not to do anything?” Greg hissed into the phone, giving his cock a hard squeeze before he did as Mycroft told him. “You’re killing me.”

“Because I have a proposition for you. If you let me do this, I’ll let you bend me over my office desk and bugger me senseless.”

He literally had no words for a response, just a strangled moan.

“My office has far better security,” Mycroft added pragmatically, “and of course it would be after business hours. Now, where were we? I believe I had your cock in my mouth?”

“You’re evil.”

“And you love it. And you love it when I’m on my knees in front of you, don’t you? Mouth stuffed full?” He was back to his sex-on-legs voice and Greg pushed into his hand, desperate for the friction.

“ _Fuck_ , Mycroft. Since when do you talk filthy?”

“It’s not often I have a toy buried in my arse while I’m on the phone,” he replied with amusement. “Although, as I said, it doesn’t even come close to having you inside me, pushing into me and filling me up properly. Just imagine what it’ll be like when you bend me over my desk. Make me take it all at once, in one long, hard thrust.”

Now that he’d said it, Greg couldn’t un-see it in his mind, and his imagination finally caught up with him. “I wouldn’t let you take off that suit; I’d just pull down your trousers and take you fully-dressed.”

Mycroft laughed delicately. “You’ve got a lot to learn about suits. The trousers are held up with braces.”

“Then I’d make you unbutton them while I watched. If you took too long, you might have to undo them on your knees—can’t have me getting bored while I wait.”

For the first time in the conversation, he heard Mycroft moan. Shamelessly. He heard the slap of skin on skin in the background. “Like that idea, do you? Yeah, me too. Can’t say I’ve ever fucked anyone over a desk, but I’d love to try. Hell of a view, watching my prick push into you like that.”

“Make it rough,” said Mycroft, his smooth voice sounding suddenly wrecked.

“Oh, yeah. I’ll take you so hard you’ll feel it for hours. Have to put my hand over your mouth to keep you quiet.”

Mycroft moaned again, almost a whining, begging sound.

“Take that toy out and shove it back in, hard. Then I want to hear you finish yourself off. Don’t hold back on me. Since I have to be quiet, I want to hear every sound out of your mouth.”

He heard him stop masturbating for a few seconds, and then a loud groan. _God, I wish that was me._ As the sounds of flesh on flesh started up again, he said, “Gonna grab your hips and fuck you so hard you won’t even need my hand on you to come. And when you do, I’ll make you lick it off the desk.” _Jesus. Where did_ that _come from?_ He’d never make him do that. But apparently the idea worked for Mycroft, because there was a long, strangled moan and a shuddering sigh, and then a breathless ‘bloody hell’.

Greg smiled to himself; he’d just made Mycroft Holmes come and he wasn’t even in the same county. He turned his full attention back to his own erection, not that he’d ever really stopped. If only he could get his hand around it instead of just rubbing against it.

“Don’t even think about it,” Mycroft said, sounding remarkably coherent for someone who’d just had an orgasm. “If I so much as hear a zip, the deal’s off.”

“Fuck, you were serious?” The possibility hadn’t even entered his mind.

“Completely. I meant everything I said. I’ll even lick it off the desk.” The sex-on-legs voice was back.

_Well, fuck._

“I just want to make you come in your trousers like a schoolboy.”

And somehow, those were the words that put him over the edge. He clapped his hand across his mouth as he came, desperate to keep quiet. A small moan slipped out anyway, and Mycroft whispered into his ear, “Good boy, doing as you’re told.”

He couldn’t even wrap his head around _that_ , because it shouldn’t have been so hot, but it was. His hot, sticky come smeared against his skin, soaking a wet spot into his pants. He stood up, leaning forward and pulling his trousers away from them so it wouldn’t seep into those as well. “Damn, Mycroft. That’s impressive. Do you run a phone sex line on the side?”

“No, but it might be a better fall-back job than barista,” he said, laughing. “So I really made you come?”

“Yeah. My pants are already sticking to me.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Sorry.”

“No, really—the pleasure was all mine.”

“Not _all_ yours. And yes, I fully intended to make good on my offer.”

“Christ, well, if you insist.” _Because who the hell would turn that down?_

“I assure you the security won’t be an issue. Besides,” he added, in a saucy, amused whisper, “I’ve always wanted to do it on my desk.”

Greg shook his head with disbelief. “You, Mycroft Holmes, are a bit of a perv.” Then he quickly added, “Not that I mind.”

“You’re the one who suggested licking it off my desk,” Mycroft said, teasingly. 

“Um, yeah, not sure where that came from. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. I think we both fall into the ‘perv’ category.” You could hear the air quotes.

“Is that the first time you’ve ever used the word ‘perv’?” Greg asked.

“I think it might be.”

“You kill me,” he said, chuckling. “This was fantastic. Not sure when I’ve enjoyed a phone call this much.”

“Mm. Me either.”

They shared a few moments of pleasant silence before Greg said, “Doctor’s supposed to clear you tomorrow, right?”

“She should stop by in the morning.” Mycroft’s voice was soft with the glow of orgasm.

“You’ll in on Thursday then?” he said, hopefully.

“Should be.”

“Maybe we can do dinner, yeah?”

“Mm, I’d like that.”

Greg paused for a second. “So would you have phoned me like this if I hadn’t texted you?”

“God, no. You caught me in the moment. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“It was a good idea.”

“I’d never have had the nerve under normal circumstances.”

Greg gave a quiet laugh. “Yeah, me either. This was great though.”

“It was. I suppose I should let you get home.”

“Yeah, to a late dinner and a dry pair of pants.”

“I’m only taking responsibility for the pants.”

“Fair enough.” He couldn’t stop grinning. “Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Mm. Sleep well,” Mycroft said.

“I think you’ve guaranteed that. You too.”

He hung up and stood there for a few seconds, then started laughing in the empty office.

_Phone sex._

_Who the hell actually has phone sex?_

He shook his head, dumbfounded.

_Me and Mycroft bloody Holmes, apparently._

* * *

The doctor came by for her final check the next morning. She listened to his lungs and did a number of other routine tests but nothing indicated any concern.

“You’ve done remarkably well,” she said. “Either you heal very quickly, or you’ve been good about taking it easy.”

“Perhaps a little of both,” he replied, giving her a charitable smile.

“Right. Well, as far as I’m concerned, you’re cleared to go back to work. You live in London, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, follow up with your doctor there if you have any concerns. Take care.”

“Thank you. You too.” _Short and sweet._ When he closed the door behind her, it felt as if a weight had been lifted. As much as he loved this house, it would be good to get back to London.

_London. The new house. Where I have no furniture_ , he realised, with a sinking feeling. He’d planned to order the basic necessities on Sunday and have them delivered, but then he’d stayed at Greg’s and it had completely slipped his mind. Then, still standing in the main entrance hallway, he started laughing. There was a whole _manor_ full of furniture here—enough to furnish multiple houses. He went to his study and grabbed a pad of sticky notes and a pen. With a mental floor-plan of his new house, he wandered the manor, labelling each piece of furniture he’d take. He deliberately left some of the new rooms empty; there was no point in furnishing something as an extra guest bedroom if it could one day be an office for Greg.

_Premature._

_(Optimistic.)_

He stuck a piece of paper on the treadmill with the label ‘exercise room’ and smiled. Plenty of room in there for a second treadmill, should it ever be necessary.

Pleased with himself, he went back to his office and made a phone call to Selfridges. “Yes. The personal shopper, please?” A half an hour later, he had—or would have—the basics for the rest of the house: crockery, linens, entertainment system, and ‘anything else that makes sense’. He hadn’t enquired as to the cost, hadn’t even thought to. He had to purchase them sometime, and it made no sense for him to spend his weekends lugging plates and stacks of towels around London. He was used to ‘throwing money at things’ to make them happen.

Sitting there, after he’d hung up the phone, he realised how much he took that for granted. In this situation, the insurance would cover it, but even if it hadn’t, he would have done the same thing. But if Greg’s flat had burnt down, he wouldn’t be able to afford to do things this way—he’d be doing the shopping himself and carting it all back. The thought gave him pause. It was no surprise people resented the rich.

He remembered Greg’s freezer—the one that made the odd noises—and wondered if he should offer to replace it. Would that be rude and patronising? He wasn’t sure. It was disconcerting. He’d never seen money from the point of view of ‘not having it’.

He went up to his bedroom and started going through his cupboard. Most of his clothes had burned along with his flat, but he had some old suits here that would suffice until he could replace them. As he dug through a stack of trousers, he found a pair of barely-worn jeans. Smiling, he put them aside; he’d try them on and see if they fit. He hoped Greg would find them amusing, or sexy, or both. ‘Sexy’ would be preferable, but he’d be happy with ‘amused’. He checked the time. Still early. He phoned the movers and arranged for them to move the furniture on Saturday, then he texted Greg.

_Ring me if you have a chance. It’s not urgent._

He grinned as he remembered their previous phone call. Greg rang him back about a half an hour later.

“Sorry, I was in a meeting.”

“Oh, it’s no problem. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

“I decided to move in on Saturday. The house here has all the furniture I need for now, so I’m just moving it to London.”

“So you want me to lug furniture?” Greg asked, good-naturedly.

“Good Lord, no; the movers will do that. I’d like the company and a second opinion on furniture placement.”

“You’re joking, right? You’ve seen my flat. I couldn’t ‘interior design’ my way out of a bag.”

“I think you’re being a little hard on yourself, but I’d still love your company.”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds like fun.”

“How’s work?”

“Since when do you make smalltalk?”

“It’s not smalltalk if I’m actually interested in the answer.”

A pause. “Oh. I’d never thought of it like that. Work’s fine; nothing too exciting. Did you get cleared to come back?”

“I did. I’m flying in tomorrow to take some meetings.”

“Well, if you’re going to be in on Friday too, you’re welcome to stay over at mine. Just saying.”

The automatic polite response of ‘I wouldn’t want to impose’ didn’t come. Instead, he heard himself say, “That would be wonderful, thank you.” It felt odd not to automatically, politely protest, but he _wanted_ to stay. If he protested, Greg would probably back down. _Perhaps I’m learning._

“Brilliant. Bring your running kit—if you want to, of course.”

“Most assuredly. I’ll even bring the banana suit.”

Greg chuckled on the other end of the phone, and then, “Damn, I have to go; Sally needs something. Call you later, yeah?”

“All right. Thanks.”

Mycroft put the phone down, glowing, feeling like he was getting away with something—a naughty schoolboy sneaking out for a night at his boyfriend’s house. It took him a few seconds, and the sight of the jeans on his bed, to remember that he was supposed to be packing.

* * *

Greg hadn’t expected Mycroft to accept his offer and was pleasantly surprised when he did. So, before he left work, he checked the internet for recipes; he was determined they wouldn’t eat takeaway. Not again. He stocked his fridge with everything he’d need for baked salmon, even choosing a nice wine to go with it—well, he hoped it would go: Tesco shop assistants weren’t the most trusted authority on wines, but it was all he had to go on.

He didn’t hear anything from him on Thursday, but he wasn’t surprised—after two weeks away from his office, it wouldn’t have shocked him if Mycroft had worked twenty-four hours and slept there. He got a phone call just as he was about to leave work.

“Hello,” Mycroft said, his voice somewhere between ‘sex-on-legs’ and ‘meeting the Prime Minister’. Greg hoped the Prime Minister never got the ‘sex-on-legs’ version.

“Hey, how are you?”

“Doing well, thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t phone earlier; I lost track of time.”

Greg chuckled. “No problem.”

“Should I meet you at your flat directly, or do you want me to stop by your office?”

“The flat’s fine. I was just about to head out, so I should be home in forty minutes or so.”

“All right. Is there anything you’d like me to bring?”

“Just yourself, gorgeous,” he said, at the exact moment Sally walked through the door. He rolled his eyes at her inappropriate timing. _How does she manage that?_

Mycroft chuckled at the term. “All right, I’ll be there soon. Bye.”

“Bye.” As he hung up the phone, Sally gave him a cheeky grin.

“So, we’re up to ‘public terms of endearment’ now, eh?”

“It wasn’t public until you barged into my office. What’s up?”

“Nothing work-related. Just wanted to see how you were.”

“Oh, thanks. Much better than last week.”

“Sounds like it.”

“You leaving? I’ll walk you down,” he said, picking up his things.

“All right.”

“He’s good for you,” she said, as they headed for the entrance.

“Yeah? Why d’you say that?”

“Well, you haven’t bitten anyone’s head off all week.”

Greg thought about it for a second and laughed. “No, suppose I haven’t.”

“And you get that look on your face every time you think about him.”

“What look?”

“That look,” she said, nodding in his direction. “Don’t worry; ‘smitten’ suits you.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Yeah, but it’s good to see you happy for a change.”

“I want you to meet him sometime,” Greg said.

“Um… yeah,” she said a bit nervously. “All right.”

“Don’t worry, he’s nothing like Sherlock. You probably won’t want to kill him.”

“So, it’s serious then?”

“Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “Yeah, I think it is.”

* * *

Early Thursday morning, Mycroft had taken the helicopter into London. Back in his normal armour of a three-piece suit—dark grey with a tiny black stripe, a crisp white shirt, and a deep red tie—he felt more normal than he had in weeks.

Anthea greeted him warmly as he got to his office.

“Welcome back, sir. It’s lovely to see you here again. We missed you.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Really? I find it hard to believe that anyone else here shares that sentiment.”

“Well, I missed you, and the others took the opportunity to be less terrified in your absence,” she said, smiling.

He chuckled. “Thank you. It’s good to be back.”

She glanced at the garment bag he carried but said nothing. It was her job to ‘say nothing’ about many things—and that would now extend to his newly-found social life.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much improved, thank you. My doctor assures me I’ll be able to tackle mountains of paperwork without breaking a sweat.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you sweat, sir,” she said with a the barest hint of a smile.

“Nor shall you. Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

His day sailed by; even boring meetings felt exhilarating. At some point, a sandwich appeared on his desk. He ate it, barely aware of its existence.

“Do you need anything else, sir?”

“Sorry?”

“It’s five o’clock. I’ll be happy to stay later if you need me to.”

He shook his head to clear it. “No, of course not. Thank you.” It seemed impossible that time had gone so quickly. He glanced at his email and began clearing his desk of sensitive documents. “I’ll be leaving on time as well. Thank you for your help today.”

“Of course, sir. It’s good to have you back.”

She left, and he leaned back in his chair. It was good to be back. The past three weeks had left his brain feeling dull from lack of use, and the intense concentration had already started honing it back to a sharp-edged blade. He’d forgotten what it was like, the joy of losing himself in his work and the mild rush of intense focus. He felt useful again.

* * *

Greg changed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt when he got home; he didn’t think Mycroft would mind. He’d just started peeling the potatoes when Mycroft rang the bell. “Just a sec,” he called, wiping his hands on a tea-towel as he went to answer the door. He saw the black car disappear down the road.

Mycroft stood there looking impeccable in an overcoat and light scarf, a large garment bag folded over one arm. He held out a bouquet of fresh flowers for Greg.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Greg said, leaning in to give him a quick kiss.

Mycroft beamed. “Hello.”

“Oh, these are lovely, thanks. Sorry,” he raised his dirty hands so Mycroft could see them, “would you mind bringing them in? I’m a bit of a mess.” Heading over to the kitchen, he added, “You can put that stuff in the bedroom. There are some hangers in the wardrobe for your coat and jacket.” Abandoning the potatoes, he washed his hands. When Mycroft came back, looking sexy as hell in a dark grey waistcoat and trousers, Greg wrapped his arms around his waist without fear of covering them in dirt. His eyes played across Mycroft’s features, drinking him in. Just seeing him brought a smile to his lips.

Mycroft put his hands on Greg’s shoulders and leaned in to kiss him. After a few, long moments—a kiss filled with as much familiarity as tenderness—they pulled apart.

“Long time, no see,” Greg said. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too. Thanks for inviting me.”

Greg gave a quick laugh. “As if I’d miss the chance.” He leaned in for another kiss, but the oven started beeping.

“I’m keeping you from dinner.”

“Dinner can wait.”

“Here, let me help. I can do the potatoes.”

Greg looked at him, aghast. “Not like that, you can’t. You’ll ruin your suit. It’s fine; I’ll do it.”

“Do you have an apron?”

He laughed. “Remember who you’re talking to, and ask me that again.”

“Right. I suppose you don’t need one for takeaway, hm?”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “You know, you can wear one of my shirts if you want; stop yours from getting dirty.”

Mycroft gave him a mock-suspicious look. “Is this a ploy to get me undressed?”

“Perhaps I just want to see what you look like in a t-shirt.” Hoping Mycroft would follow his lead, he went into the bedroom and took out a few of his shirts, deftly picking the softer, more worn ones—the ones that would show off his features.

“Definitely a ploy, then,” Mycroft said with a half-smile.

“I don’t hear you complaining,” Greg said, taking the opportunity to undo the buttons of his waistcoat, and then his shirt.

Mycroft grinned as he undid his cuff-links. “You seem awfully interested in getting me undressed.”

“That’s an obvious statement if I’ve ever heard one,” Greg said, placing a kiss on Mycroft’s chest before he handed him a t-shirt. “I’m interested in anything to do with you dressing or undressing. Try this one on.” As Mycroft pulled it over his head, Greg added, “It’s too bad I don’t have a pair of jeans that would fit you.”

Mycroft laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

He opened the garment bag and pulled out a pair of jeans. “I found them while I was packing things for the new house. I thought you might find them amusing.”

“Probably not the word I’d use. You’re brilliant, you know that?”

Mycroft pulled them on, and Greg raised one eyebrow. “You’re just trying to make sure we don’t eat, aren’t you?” he teased.

“You like them?”

He sounded tentative, which struck Greg as ludicrous. Did he really have no idea how sexy he looked? “I love them. You look as good in those as you do in running tights, which, believe me, is saying something.” The jeans managed to be both tasteful and sexy, and Greg tried not to be too obvious as he stared at his arse. “Leave them on? You look great.”

“I fear you’re biased.” The half-grin softened his features and chased away the look of doubt.

Greg leaned over and kissed him. “I think I’m lucky as hell, and not just because you look sexy in anything you put on.”

“I think we should peel those potatoes now that I’m properly attired,” Mycroft said, changing the subject. “What’s for dinner?”

“Not takeaway.”

“So I see. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m impressed.”

“You should be. I looked up recipes and everything,” Greg said with a teasing grin. “We’re having baked salmon. If you don’t like fish, I have a back-up recipe involving chicken, which I know you eat because you ordered it at the shawarma place.”

“Sounds great; I love salmon.”

Greg needn’t have been worried; dinner was a huge success. By the time they’d finished and were sitting on the sofa with bowls of ice cream, they’d gone through almost an entire bottle of wine. Things were a little fuzzy around the edges. They were sitting close enough that their thighs touched, and Greg wasn’t sure if the room was warm from the wine or his proximity to Mycroft.

“How was your first day back?”

“Invigorating. I’d been away from it for too long.”

“It’s good to have you back in London. Are you going to stay at the new place on Saturday?”

“Even if it means a lilo,” he said, chuckling.

“Fully committed, then?”

There was a slight pause. “Something like that.”

Greg gave him a sideways glance. There was something about the way he’d said it…

Both of them took another sip of wine.

After a second, Mycroft spoke. “The answer is yes.”

“What was the question?”

“The one you didn’t ask: whether or not I took ‘fully committed’ to be a double entendre.”

Greg considered that for a moment. He hadn’t meant it that way, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a question. He’d spent the whole week thinking about him—wondering if Mycroft felt as strongly about the relationship as he did. “I’d say it’s pretty serious for me, too.” Then, just in case there was any question about his meaning, he added, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

They both leaned in for a kiss, the sort of hazy, euphoric kiss that comes from a good buzz and declarations of love—or at least of serious romantic intent.

* * *

They never made it out for their Friday morning run. Something about sharing a bed with Greg felt oddly comforting, and he’d slept like a baby. Tangled together in a pleasant doze, they’d ignored the alarm, and their remaining time seemed better applied to the pursuit of pleasure than fitness. By the time they’d finished an enthusiastic round of sex, neither of them wanted to get out of bed to do anything, let alone go to work.

Mycroft kissed him and ran his hand through Greg’s hair, which stuck up at endearingly odd angles. “That was fantastic. I’m sorry I have to leave.”

“You and me both. It’s a shame we can’t spend all day in bed.”

“Indeed.”

“You still want help moving tomorrow?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, no problem. When do you want me there?”

Mycroft paused for a moment, frowning. “Are you doing anything tonight?”

“Well, no, but don’t you need to supervise things tomorrow morning?”

“Mm, but that doesn’t mean I have to be there alone. How would you fancy a helicopter ride? Two, actually.”

“Really?” Greg said, his face lighting up. “Sounds great.”

“No chance of sex on a helicopter—well, not without possible fatalities—but it’s still an entertaining ride.”

Greg laughed. “Sex or no sex, it sounds like fun.”

“Wonderful. Should I pick you up from work? We can head straight to the airport.” 

“Sure. I have a meeting ‘til five but I’ll be done after that. I mean, assuming nothing big comes up.”

“Of course. I should be able to forestall any major world events, but there’s always a chance I’ll have the same issue.”

“I’m still convinced you have a World Domination Lair somewhere,” Greg said, giving him a kiss. “I’m just glad I’m on your side.”

* * *

If his beaming smile was anything to go by, Greg enjoyed the helicopter ride. Mycroft made a mental note to get air clearance for a low-altitude tour of London sometime; he’d have to call in a few favours, but it’d be worth it. Back at the house, they had a leisurely dinner before starting the packing. The movers would handle the furniture and clothing, but there were some personal objects too valuable to entrust to others.

Greg taped boxes together and lined them up, ready to be filled.

“You honestly don’t have to help,” Mycroft said. “Just keep me company.”

“Nah, I don’t mind. Here, pass me something to wrap.” When Mycroft gave him a lead crystal decanter, he blanched. “Um, maybe something less valuable.”

Mycroft laughed. “Just use a lot of paper. It’ll be all right.”

Greg frowned doubtfully but proceeded to wrap it in reams of tissue paper before placing it in its own small box.

Once they’d finished with the drinks set—he’d checked with Mummy to see if she cared, but he was the only one who ever used it—they moved on to the photographs.

Greg watched as he took them from the wall and placed them on the floor in a row. “Is that you and Sherlock?”

It was. They were dressed in full fencing gear—white outfits and masks—épées crossed as they assumed the traditional fighting stance. “Mm. We both learned as children. When he was old enough, we used to practice together.”

“Do you still do it?”

“No, sadly. Sherlock gave it up long ago, and the only claim I can make to it these days is my umbrella.”

“Sorry? Do you whack people upside the head with it or something?”

He chuckled. “No; much more subtle, although it’s more of an affectation, really. Traditional self-defence is far more practical.”

“No, seriously, what are you talking about? You brought it up.”

He smiled. “I suppose I did.” He retrieved his umbrella from the stand in the entrance hall. In one lightning-quick movement, he pulled the handle free from the rest of it, revealing a razor-sharp sword that ran the entire length of the brolly.

“Holy fuck!” Greg exclaimed, instinctively dodging backwards, even though Mycroft was nowhere near him. “No wonder you take that thing everywhere!”

Mycroft smiled and held it out for him to examine. “As I said, not very practical, but it holds fond memories.”

“Fond memories of chopping people’s heads off?”

“No, of practising fencing with Sherlock.”

“That’s amazing. I’m surprised he’s never mentioned it.”

“I wouldn’t expect him to.”

“No, I s’pose not.” Greg turned the sword over in his hands, scrutinising it. “This is incredible. You have any other exciting hobbies?”

“That depends on your definition; more like ‘unusual’. We had riding and dancing lessons instead of football practise. And piano, of course.”

“Dancing? Really?”

“Mm. Not much different from fencing, in some ways. I’m a man of many talents, most of them obscure,” Mycroft replied with a smile.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Greg said, raising his eyebrows cheekily, “some of your ‘talents’ are pretty damned relevant, and I’m not just talking about your coffee-making skills.”

“You just want me for my body.”

“Not _just_ for your body,” he said, flashing him that dazzling smile. “Teach me how to dance sometime? I’m rubbish at it. I always sit around at weddings feeling awkward.”

“I’d love to. I’ve never had much call for it in daily life.”

“Not even when you were doing fieldwork?” Greg teased.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “What about you?”

“I dunno. Kicked a ball around a bit. Rode a skateboard. I had a great record collection, which I sold to buy my first motorbike. Talk about a wasted youth.”

“You could teach me about any of those and I’d be happy.” He paused, considering. “Well, perhaps not the skateboarding; I fear I’d break my neck.”

“Yeah, well, so would I these days.”

They continued wrapping, slowing filling the boxes with pictures and mementos.

Greg looked up at him, cocking his head. “Hang on; why all these sentimental things? All you had at the last place was your painting.”

“Mm.” He thought for a moment before replying. He’d consciously made the decision when he’d visited the new house, but he wasn’t sure how to express it to Greg. “As trite as it sounds, nearly dying made me want to surround myself with sentimental objects—enjoy them while I can.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied slowly. “That makes sense.”

As they packed up the bedroom a little later, Mycroft placed the small stuffed animal Greg had given him into a box.

Greg grinned. “You don’t have to keep that, you know. It was just something to cheer you up in hospital.”

“I know, and it makes me smile every time I look at it.”

* * *

The move went quickly and smoothly; by late Saturday, familiar furniture filled the unfamiliar house, and boxes were stacked in their appropriate rooms.

A few ‘critical’ boxes had been unpacked. His Turner painting hung proudly in the living room; Totoro watched over the bedroom; his great-grandmother’s mantelpiece clock sat in the dining room, quietly striking the quarter-hours. 

“You hungry?” Greg asked.

“Not really. The sandwich earlier was enough.” Greg had made a mid-afternoon run to stock the fridge and brought back a late lunch as well. “You?”

“Yeah, not really. I might have some cereal later. Rather put my feet up.”

“Excellent idea. Drink?”

“Sure.”

“Beer or Scotch? Or water?”

“I’ll just have a beer; too thirsty for Scotch.”

Greg grabbed one from the fridge while Mycroft found the box with the alcohol. He couldn’t be bothered unpacking the proper glasses, so he got a regular one and poured a little in the bottom.

“Slumming it, huh?”

“Says the man drinking beer from a bottle,” Mycroft replied, grinning. They collapsed onto the worn but comfortable sofa with exhausted sighs.

Greg raised his bottle in a toast. “To your new house and many happy years in it.”

“To the new house.” He almost said ‘our new house’ by mistake, but stopped himself just in time. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

“God, I’m tired,” Mycroft said, propping his feet up on a box. The footstool was on the other side of the room but he couldn’t summon the energy to go and get it.

“Is there anything else you wanted to unpack tonight?”

Mycroft squinted. “I think there were sheets in the Selfridges delivery. They should be up in the bedroom.”

“Do the rest tomorrow, then?”

“Mm.” He took another sip of his drink. He glanced over at the television and the stereo and realised he didn’t have the remotes. Even if he did, they’d have to be programmed. He dug out his phone and scrolled through his music, selected some Handel, and set it on the cardboard box.

Greg smiled and got out his own phone.

“We can listen to some of yours if you’d prefer,” Mycroft said.

“No, this is great.” He fiddled with his phone for a few seconds then leaned in close and held it in front of them. “Say cheese.”

Mycroft turned to look at him, horrified, just as the picture snapped.

Greg showed him the photo, trying to suppress a laugh. Mycroft looked like he’d been told to pour his favourite bottle of Scotch down the sink. “Want to try that again?”

Mycroft frowned. “Not really. I hate having my picture taken.” Pictures made him uncomfortable. Always had. Too many years of being self-conscious.

Greg’s face fell. “Sorry, I didn’t know.” He closed his phone and put it back in his pocket. “I just wanted to, you know, commemorate the event. I didn’t mean to ruin it.”

“You didn’t,” he said, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “It’s not your fault.”

“I suppose this means I won’t be getting any crotch shots in my inbox?” he said, with a mock-hopeful look.

He couldn’t help but laugh. “No, it’s unlikely.”

“Well, you did pretty well with the phone sex.” He shrugged. “Seemed like a possibility.”

“Why? Is that the sort of thing you’d want in your email?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no, but I’d rather have a selfie with my boyfriend.”

“A ‘selfie’?”

“That’s what my niece calls it.”

“Ah.” He frowned, chewing on his lip for a second. The idea that Greg wanted a _photo_ of him—of the stiff, awkward shell of his unremarkable body and strange-looking face—threw him. The only people who’d ever wanted pictures were his parents, and he supposed that sort of interest was mandatory. It hadn’t made the pictures any more bearable, except when he’d been able to hide behind a fencing mask. His usual smiles were laced with sarcasm; Greg was asking for photographic proof of unguarded happiness. “Would anyone else see it?”

Greg squinted and slowly shook his head. “Not unless you want them to.”

“All right. But if it’s a disaster, you have to erase it. Along with that other one.”

He took the phone from his pocket. “You sure?”

“No. You should do it before I change my mind.”

“Fair enough,” he said, chuckling. Holding the camera in front of them he said, “Now, think about that time we almost got caught in the changing room…”

An unforced smile crossed Mycroft’s face, and Greg snapped the picture.

“Nice!” He handed the phone to Mycroft; they both looked relaxed and happy, wearing mischievous grins. “See?”

“See what?”

“How good you look.”

“Well, ‘Remember that time we almost got caught’ is a lot more effective than ‘Say cheese!’”

“So if you think about sex whenever someone takes your picture, you’ll have the perfect expression.”

“—and an erection.”

Greg shrugged. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Only when you’re not around,” he said, then he leaned in and placed a quiet kiss on Greg’s lips.


	11. Chapter 11

His new house felt so different from his old one; it felt more like home. He wasn’t sure if it was the more manageable size, or the family furniture, or the fact that he hadn’t let an interior designer paint everything the same shade of cream. To be honest, he wasn’t letting an interior designer anywhere near the place. His last house had looked like a museum. Impeccably tasteful; in some ways, irritatingly so. He’d just never noticed. He’d spent so much time with his head buried in his work that the house was just background noise.

He left the walls painted the way they were—tasteful, for the most part, except for an unfortunate light turquoise in the basement loo, a misguided attempt at bringing a bit of Bahamian sunshine to the London winters, perhaps. Greg had promised to paint it for him. It made more sense to hire a contractor, but the thought of him wielding a paint roller, his tanned skin covered with flecks of paint, was far sexier than he’d expected, and he happily accepted the offer. He’d even help.

They unpacked most of the boxes on Sunday, and Greg came by again on Monday evening to help with the rest of them. Remarkably, there was almost nothing he needed to buy. The sitting room could use another end table, and one of the guest bedrooms needed a wardrobe—he wasn’t sure how he’d missed that—but he’d get both of them from the manor. All the furniture he’d removed had barely made a dent on its overall appearance; the house just looked a little less cluttered. He personally thought it was an improvement.

The one thing he _did_ need was an espresso machine. Greg had slowly been convincing him of the merits of a latte, and although it would never replace his tea, he occasionally enjoyed the extra jolt of caffeine. Greg somehow talked him into going out and buying it instead of having it delivered. (‘Don’t you want to look at them first? C’mon. It’ll be fun.’) It was, to put it charitably, a memorable trip. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been shopping, and when they confronted the inevitable crowds on Oxford Street, he remembered why. They’d gone after work, so it wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but lugging the huge, awkward box back to the house had taken some effort. They took a taxi; God knows what it would have been like if they’d taken the tube. They spent a good hour putting the thing together, only to realise he didn’t have any coffee beans—or a coffee grinder—in the house. Greg made a last-minute dash to High Street to find some ground coffee before the shops closed. When he got back, it was almost ten, and neither of them wanted that much caffeine before bedtime. The whole thing had been an exercise in, as Greg would later put it, ‘sheer bloody-mindedness’: one of those tasks you feel like you have to finish just because you’ve started it, even though it’s not urgent or particularly sane. The evening ended with them standing in the kitchen, looking at the currently-useless espresso machine and the high-octane coffee beans, laughing at the silliness of it all. Mycroft made them some tea instead.

Living at the new house felt like wearing one of his favourite suits: a good fit, reassuring, and _right_. In a strange way, it made him thankful for the fire; he’d never have considered moving under normal circumstances.

He adopted a precise weekday routine, much as he had at his old house.

_Wake up at half four; put on running gear; make tea; make one slice of toast with a thin layer of strawberry jam; eat toast; drink tea._

Each morning at five to five, Greg showed up on his doorstep, already warmed up and glowing from the run over, and they jogged the few blocks to Kensington Gardens. On some mornings, they’d arrive just as the guard was opening the gate; each time it happened, Greg would give him a knowing smile. “Best present ever,” he’d said to Mycroft once.

After the first few days, even wearing the banana suit didn’t bother him; a lot of the runners wore them. Ironically, wearing the hideous thing allowed him to fit in with everyone else. They took them off once they were inside the park and no longer had to contend with the early-morning traffic.

They started his training almost immediately—a mixture of running and walking that gradually transitioned to more running as he improved. It eventually reached the point where Greg didn’t have to slow down for him at all. Greg bought him a pair of running tights to celebrate—black ones, with a red stripe down the leg. They didn’t have sex in the changing room, but Greg made him ‘try them on’ when they got back to the house. It had taken a while. Mycroft bought Greg a new pair of trainers—because Greg had never got around to replacing his old tatty pair and they were disgusting. There was no sex involved with the trainers; they weren’t really into that sort of thing.

Their post-run routine was simple: Greg ran back via his house ‘for the company’ and then continued back to his flat. All very straightforward.

Then, one morning, he came in for coffee. And ended up staying for sex. Neither of them kept an eye on the time—there were far more important things going on. Sweaty, breathless, wonderful things. Much less wonderful, although nearly as sweaty and breathless by the time he arrived, was the nine o’clock meeting Greg almost missed. Sally was the only one who didn’t buy his ‘I overslept’ excuse.

Realising their post-run ‘coffee’ was a convenient opportunity for sex—because on many weekdays, their run was the only time they had together—they started optimising for it. A stash of clothing; breakfast and coffee for two instead of one; a new tube station for Greg. Not large changes; incremental ones. Matters of convenience. Nothing Mycroft couldn’t ‘justify’, emotionally. After all, Greg’s _overnight_ stays were—by unspoken agreement—limited to the weekends.

* * *

Greg fidgeted with a pencil on his desk, a wooden relic in an age of laptops and mobiles. He used the rubber to tap out an email, the extra effort distracting him from the low-level irritation that had plagued him all morning. Last week, their ‘morning jogs’ had turned into ‘morning jogs and sex-fests’. Unfortunately, today had not been one of those days: Mycroft had an early meeting and Greg had slogged through the mist alone, unsure if his pathetic pace was a result of the cold weather, the lack of company, or the knowledge that there’d be no sex afterwards.

Two months ago, running had been all about the solitude; now, it was a big part of his relationship with Mycroft, a chance for them to steal some time away together before the day got started. Even without the sex, time spent with Mycroft always made him feel better.

Without it, the day felt _off_.

This particular day felt like it would drag on for years, and it wasn’t even eleven. Interminably dull. On a whim, he phoned Mycroft. “Hey, it’s me. Do you have a sec?”

“Briefly.”

Greg immediately felt bad for interrupting him—if Mycroft only had a ‘brief’ minute, it likely meant he didn’t have one at all. “Lunch?” he said, trying to keep the conversation as short as possible.

“12?”

“Perfect,” Greg said, surprised Mycroft had agreed. World domination was probably hard work even on a slow day. “Meet at yours?”

“I’d prefer yours, if that’s not a problem.”

“Sure. See you soon then, yeah?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft, still all business but with a hint of softness to his voice that Greg suspected his employees never heard.

After hanging up, Greg frowned at the phone in his hand; it took him only a few seconds to realise what was wrong. Well, not _wrong_ exactly, but different. Mycroft had never stopped by his office before. He started tidying up the piles of paperwork on his desk and binning empty coffee cups, suddenly wanting to make a good impression. _A good impression on the man I’ve been sleeping with for almost two months._ It seemed a little belated.

When he saw Sally wander by in the hallway, something twigged: he still hadn’t properly introduced Mycroft to his colleagues. Not as his boyfriend. Not that anyone here would care; it was just an aspect of the relationship they hadn’t got to yet.

Was that why he’d proposed meeting here? Did it bother Mycroft? For that matter, did it bother _him?_ He decided it didn’t.

At noon, his phone rang.

“I’m downstairs.”

_So much for that theory._ “I’ll be right there.”

They bought some sandwiches and took them to the small park next to the building. Mycroft—in what could only be described as amazing timing or the most subtle intimidation ever—managed to procure them a bench. They watched the pigeons flock around the people silly enough to throw them crumbs.

“Can I ask you a strange question?” Greg said.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Mycroft said with a grin.

“Do you want me to introduce you to my colleagues? Not in a ‘This is Mycroft, my boyfriend; isn’t he cute?’ sort of way, but—I don’t know—having you come up to my office sometimes. Something like that. I don’t want you to think I’m keeping you a secret.”

“Do you think I’m cute?” he replied cheekily.

“I’d have to be blind not to.”

Mycroft gave him an easy laugh. “It doesn’t bother me either way, to be honest. Why? Is there someone you’d like me to meet?”

“Well, Sally, at some point. She’s the only person I see outside of work.”

“Are you sure she’ll want to? I get the impression she’s not my biggest admirer.”

“She’s had a change of heart.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Even told me the other day that you’re good for me.” He didn’t tell him about the ‘smitten’ thing. “Perhaps we could all meet up for a pint after work or something.”

“Of course; I’d be happy to.”

“You sure? I mean, that doesn’t strike me as your idea of ‘fun’.”

“Perhaps, but I never imagined eating with my fingers would be fun either.”

He smiled, relieved. “Thanks. This means a lot to me.”

“Was it bothering you?” Mycroft asked.

“Well, when you asked to meet me here, I realised you’d never come by my office before and it got me thinking about it.” He frowned. “Why did you want to meet here?”

“I was over at MI6 this morning, and it’s closer to my next meeting.”

“Oh, well that’s refreshingly boring.”

“With the Queen.”

“Ah. You’re going to have to shoot me now, aren’t you?”

“Quite probably,” Mycroft replied, and took another bite of his sandwich.

* * *

They’d agreed to meet Sally after work on Thursday. Truth be told, he would have preferred almost anywhere other than a pub, but there was no point in making everyone else uncomfortable. Greg phoned him with the details that afternoon. “The Albert; it’s right next to the park. Six-ish, yeah?”

“I’ll be there,” Mycroft said. “Should I eat beforehand?”

“Nah, we’ll get something there.”

Mycroft gave a small, internal shudder but said nothing. Pub food wasn’t his strong suit. “All right. I’ll see you soon.”

“Thanks for doing this; I appreciate it.”

“No problem. It’s my pleasure.”

“You’re a good sport and a bad liar. Thanks.”

The early summer evening was warm enough to be pleasant but cool enough not to make his three-piece suit uncomfortable as he walked to the pub. He made it there just before six, a small place on the corner with a pub downstairs and a dining room above. Greg and Sally were already there, sitting at a table, each nursing a pint.

Greg stood up when he saw him. “Hey, gorgeous. Glad you could make it.”

“My pleasure.”

“This is Sally Donovan. I believe you met briefly on that day with the note thing. Sally: Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled and shook her hand. “Lovely to meet you properly, Sally.”

“You too.”

“Um, we already got our drinks. Want one?”

“I’ll get it.”

He got some Scotch from the bar and joined them. There were some brief pleasantries about work—or, more accurately, his inability to discuss his job due to security concerns—and then Sally said something completely unexpected.

“I’m so glad you two found each other. He’s a changed man.”

Mycroft wasn’t sure how to respond and ended up stammering, “Um, yes, it’s been good for both of us.”

Then, having spoken her mind on the subject, she launched into a completely different topic. It must have been the conversation that left his head spinning, because the alcohol never had that effect.

After a few bites of food, they ended up playing darts for an hour or so. To everyone’s surprise—including his own—he was remarkably good at it. Perhaps fencing had honed his hand-eye coordination. By the end of the evening he felt completely at ease, not only with her but with the environment. ‘Going down the pub’ still wouldn’t be his first choice of evening entertainment, but it was nice to know it wasn’t as terrifying as he’d feared.

* * *

That weekend, Greg stayed at his new place. Again. In point of fact, they’d spent at least one night of every weekend together since they’d met. It just sort of happened that way at first, but for the past month or so, those weekends had been a planned and much-anticipated delight.

Neither of them had brought up the whole ‘love’ thing, but he’d thought about it a great deal and come to the conclusion that he was very much in love. His feelings had moved well beyond infatuation, even in the relationship’s early stages. Saying it, though—especially saying it _first_ —made him nervous. It crossed a line he’d crossed only once before, and that had ended badly. It felt easier to pretend this was just ‘another relationship’, even if the facts showed otherwise: Greg practically lived there three nights a week (because they almost always found an excuse for him to stay on Sunday night), they saw each other almost every morning, and they were having ridiculous amounts of sex. And lately, there had been an awful lot of evenings together as well: impromptu dinners and nights in front of the telly watching Greg’s DVDs.

He wasn’t really fooling himself.

He couldn’t remember ever being happier.

He just didn’t know how to say it. Not directly. Not first.

And perhaps an unspoken declaration of love was easier than the actual words.

He waited until Sunday, eventually bringing it up while he emptied the dishwasher: perhaps the clatter of the plates would mask any nervousness in his voice. “There’s a pub down the road,” he said breezily. “Perhaps we could go out for Sunday roast this afternoon.”

Greg, who’d been leisurely flipping through the newspaper, gaped at him, blinked, then said, “Come again?”

“You heard me,” Mycroft said with a quiet grin. Now that the suggestion was out there, he could appreciate the absurdity; it probably sounded more like a psychotic break than a declaration of love. _Still, there’s no going back now._ “I looked at the menu, and it seems reasonable enough.”

“You’re asking me if I want to go to the pub?”

“Specifically, ‘the local’, as I believe you generally refer to it.”

Greg got up, walked over, and kissed him. “I love you too, Mycroft Holmes,” he said, his expression a mixture of tenderness and mild amusement. “I should have said it before now, but I thought it might scare you off. But if you’re asking me to go to the pub, I think we’re beyond that.”

It felt as if they should do something momentous to celebrate the occasion, but—well—they just went out for Sunday roast at the pub. It was surprisingly tasty. And because it was Sunday, Greg stayed the night. For an ‘initial declaration of love’, it was rather anti-climactic, but only in the best sort of way.

They both started finding more excuses for him to stay during the week. Their new relationship status made that acceptable, Mycroft decided. Not just ‘acceptable’ but ‘desirable’. _Downright fantastic_ , if he was honest with himself. He never slept as well as he did on the nights Greg was there. It made him happy just to lie there and watch Greg sleep, his handsome face completely free of the stress it sometimes showed after a long day. It wasn’t long before Greg was staying at Mycroft’s place more than he was his own.

One night, instead of having their usual ‘It’s getting late, do you want to stay?’ discussion, Mycroft proposed the increasingly obvious.

“Will you move in?”

Greg said yes.

* * *

He hadn’t expected Mycroft to ask him to move in, at least not this soon. They’d fallen into a comfortable routine, and while he’d wondered (extensively) about Mycroft’s unspoken position on living together, he didn’t feel the need to pry. As far as he could tell, Mycroft saw the step as giving up control—not that he’d cede it to Greg, but that the type of life he’d lived for so long would be irrevocably changed by the action. It was one thing to have a boyfriend; it was another to have a partner and share every day with that person, especially for someone who often felt the need to be alone.

The arrangement they had was fine, and he was very happy with it. He didn’t want to bring the subject up; didn’t want to back Mycroft into a corner. And there was the rudeness aspect: Mycroft certainly wouldn’t want to move into his flat (and that didn’t made a shred of sense), and inviting yourself into someone else’s house? No.

So he waited for Mycroft to bring it up; waited for him to become as comfortable with the idea as he had. And as soon as Mycroft did, he said yes. Of course. And then he said, “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Mycroft looked at him, took a deep breath and let it out, and nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything than I am about my feelings for you.”

Greg took his hand and leaned in until their foreheads touched. “I love you, Mycroft.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

They’d been living together for a few weeks when a card arrived, forwarded from his old address. Mycroft was flipping through the post, sorting it into piles.

“Oh, here’s one for you. Been lying about your age?” Mycroft joked, handing him a yellow envelope covered with balloons and stars. It was an invitation to Katie’s fifth birthday party—a standard fill-in-the-blank kid’s birthday invite, unremarkable except for the handwritten “No Guests”, underlined twice, so forcefully that the pen had left indentations in the card.

Greg stared at it in disbelief. “Of all the fucking nerve!”

Mycroft looked up from the bills. “What is it, love?”

Greg handed it to him without comment.

He read it and frowned. “Perhaps she wants to keep it small?” he said, trying to be charitable.

“Like hell she does. You know what it means as much as I do.”

Mycroft gave a small, resigned nod. “Well, if it helps, I’d be useless at a birthday party.”

“That’s not the point. I haven’t heard from her in months, and she doesn’t even ask me to babysit anymore. I’d ignored it, but I can’t ignore this.”

“You’re going to go though, right? After all, it’s her birthday; just because your sister’s being unreasonable doesn’t mean she should miss seeing Uncle Greg.”

Greg groaned in frustration. “I don’t want to let her ‘win’ this. If I give in and don’t make a fuss, it just proves to her that she can use Katie as a bargaining chip.” Mycroft gave him a resigned nod as he continued his rant. “I won’t let her openly mock my relationship. I’ve had it with her and her homophobic bullshit.”

Mycroft sat there quietly, then said, “Is there anything I can do?”

“Ignore me while I stomp around the house in a strop,” he said.

“Fair enough. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“All right.”

“No. Actually, I do.”

Mycroft smiled a little at the abrupt turnaround, and Greg continued speaking. “She’s been doing this to me for years, picking away at me, ever since I came out.”

“Didn’t take it well?”

“No. My dad was dead by then, and Mum took it okay, but she just said I was ‘disgusting’ and refused to speak to me for six months.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Said I was ‘shoving it in her face’. I didn’t bring dates to family dinners—mostly because I knew how she’d treat them—and I never brought it up in conversation, but she always found a way to work it in, usually by going on about AIDS and how we all deserved it anyway.”

“Christ.”

He paced around the room, getting more and more worked up. “I tried to avoid her completely, except for holidays. You know, for Mum’s sake. But then she had Katie and I wanted to be around more, so I started putting up with it. It wasn’t like I was dating, so no one else had to put up with her. I phoned her when they let me out of the hospital, for a ride home and a bit of money for the locksmith, you know? And when I told her it wasn’t my flat that burnt down, she gave me all kinds of hell. I hung up on her. I’m surprised I got invited to the recital. Probably Katie’s doing.”

“Do you want a drink?”

“Yeah, I need a bloody drink.”

He stared out the window and fumed. Mycroft handed him a beer from the fridge—now was not the time to be knocking back expensive Scotch and they both knew it. He took a long swig, focusing on the taste and the mild sting of the carbonation. He took a deep breath, then another drink, and the rage started to subside a little. “I’m not going to let her do this to me again. She doesn’t get to pull you into this.”

Mycroft was silent. When Greg turned to look at him, Mycroft wore a somber look. “She’s your family, Greg.”

“And she’s been like this my whole life. I wouldn’t put up with this nonsense from anybody else—why do I have to take it from her?”

Mycroft did something Greg rarely heard: he spoke the obvious. “Because she’ll stop you from seeing Katie.”

“Yeah. That’s the worst part; she’s using her as leverage to make me miserable.” He took another swig from the beer. “No, actually it’s worse than that. She’s using you as leverage as well.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at it for a few seconds, then started punching in her number.

“Wait,” Mycroft said, “are you sure this is the best time?”

“No, but when is?” The phone rang and Janice picked up. He kept the irritation out of his voice as much as he could; it wouldn’t help to go into this fighting, even if it degenerated into that. “Hey, it’s me.”

“What’s up? I’m sort of busy.”

“I got the invite to Katie’s party. Is it okay if I bring Mycroft? He’s dying to meet her.”

“Didn’t you see the note?”

“Yeah, well, he’s hardly just a ‘guest’; he’s my boyfriend. Jim’s going to be there, right?” Jim was Janice’s boyfriend.

“Yeah, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Well, if boyfriends are invited…”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. Don’t even think about bringing him.”

_Fine. I tried being nice._ “We are living together, you know. When _does_ she get to meet him, exactly?”

“She doesn’t. I’m not explaining your ‘lifestyle’ to her; she’s a kid.” Her voice dripped with icy disdain.

Greg glanced over at Mycroft, who wore a look of concerned sympathy. “Right. And when does she stop being a kid? How long do I have to pretend Mycroft doesn’t exist?”

“As far as I’m concerned,” Janice replied, “he doesn’t, and if you start mentioning him, you can forget about being part of her life.”

Greg kicked the sofa in frustration, then grimaced as he stubbed his toe in the process. “Bloody hell, Jan. It’s just the three of us left. Are you really that fucking cold?”

His question was met with silence.

“Great. Fucking great. Well, you know what? I love Katie and it kills me to do this, but I love Mycroft more. Until you can act like a fucking grown-up, I’ll stay out of your little homophobic world. Let me know if you ever change your mind.”

“Fine.”

“ _Fine?_ That’s all you have to say? Jesus Christ. Oh, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t burn the birthday card I’ll send her. I want her to know she still has an uncle.” She didn’t immediately respond, so he hung up. He stared off into the distance, feeling numb, tears pricking at his eyes. When Mycroft hugged him, he felt a rush of relief at not having to go through this alone. Neither of them said anything. He finally heaved a large sigh and pulled away, slumping into a heap on the sofa.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said.

Greg gave him a resigned, tight-lipped smile. “Thanks. She can’t write you out of my life like that.”

“Thank you for doing that for me. I can’t imagine how hard it was for you.”

“It needed to be said. I suppose Sherlock didn’t go through a homophobic period?”

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth turned up in a small grin. “No. He actually dealt with being gay before I did, precocious bastard.”

“Figures.” It made him smile a little.

Mycroft sat down on the sofa next to him and pulled him close. “You going to be all right?”

“Yeah. It just stings. More for Katie than anything.”

“I know,” Mycroft said, kissing his temple. “We’ll get through it.”

* * *

Greg was supposed to be doing paperwork, but he couldn’t focus. Not on the paperwork, at least.

_Three months._ It didn’t seem like three months. It felt like they’d known each other for years. _Three months._ Was it too soon?

They’d already been living together for a month now—almost two if you counted the weeks he’d slept over on a regular basis. Nothing had exploded. No one had sulked. He’d learned when to give Mycroft the space he needed. There hadn’t been arguments about whose turn it was to do the dishes or drop off the dry cleaning or clean the toilets (although Mycroft had someone come in and do the toilets, so there was no argument to be had there). They were both off their best behaviour, and yet none of the million little things that _could_ have gone wrong had gone wrong.

It wasn’t all sex, all the time. Sometimes they were both too tired to do anything except crash on the sofa after work and watch the telly. Honestly, that was just as great as the sex. Better, in some ways, because you could never be ‘too tired’ to curl up next to someone and unwind after a hard day.

He’d worried that after so many years of living alone, he wouldn’t be able to adjust, but he’d been wrong: it was better than he’d ever hoped for, and now he couldn’t imagine anything else.

It wasn’t a matter of _if_ he would ask, it was _when_. He just hoped he’d say yes. And if he didn’t… well, he’d be a bit disappointed, but ultimately what they had now was what he needed.

That didn’t stop him from being nervous as hell.

_No time like the present_ , he thought, flicking a paper clip across his office and landing it masterfully in the bin. _Well, technically, tomorrow morning._

The next day when they got up for their run, he was so nervous he thought he might be sick.

“You all right, love? You look a bit… off.”

“I don’t think I slept well.” It wasn’t a lie. “I’ll be fine; I’ll be better once I get going. Anyway, it’s the summer solstice - best running day of the year.” Even the weather was cooperating—the perma-drizzle of the previous week had given way to a glorious morning, complete with an actual, visible sunrise.

As long as he didn’t get sick all over Mycroft’s shoes, it’d be perfect.

He should have done it at the beginning of the run. But no. He wasn’t sure why, but in his head he’d pictured it at the end. So by the time he led Mycroft to the shady bowers of the Sunken Garden next to Kensington Palace, they were both covered in sweat and breathing heavily—and not in a sexy way.

He stopped in the leafy tunnel that overlooked the rectangular pond and the colourful plantings surrounding it. He braced his hands on his thighs, trying to catch his breath. _Perhaps today wasn’t the best day to practice sprints._

Mycroft eyed him suspiciously. They never came in here.

“Lovely view, isn’t it?” Greg said, trying to buy himself enough time to propose without sounding like… well, like he’d just run four miles. His breath came back, but his heart wouldn’t slow down. _Probably to be expected. C’mon._ _No time like the present._ “This was a lot more romantic in my head, but will you marry me?”

Mycroft started laughing.

Then he did, too. A couple of sweaty blokes in running tights, laughing like mad in a deserted formal garden.

Mycroft took his face in both hands and kissed him: a long, passionate kiss.

When they broke apart, Mycroft said, “Of course I will. I love you.” He hugged him, and then they kissed again.

“I shouldn’t have done this on the run,” Greg said, apologetically.

“Are you joking? It was perfect. Best proposal ever.” He squeezed Greg’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go home and celebrate.” 

* * *

They were engaged. Engagements had to be announced. At least to families—friends and colleagues would come later.

Sherlock and John were easy; they didn’t even have to tell them. Sherlock figured it out the following day when they were working a case together; he pulled Greg to the side and said, “Three months. Not bad.”

It had taken him over a year to ask John.

Greg rolled his eyes. “Most people say ‘congratulations’ first, but I’ll take that as read and say ‘thank you’.”

“How’d you ask?”

“How do you know he didn’t do the asking?”

Sherlock laughed. “Because he’s my brother.” Then his features softened into a fond smile. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”

“Thanks,” Greg replied, not sure how to deal with such a heartfelt pronouncement from Sherlock.

“Well, how’d you do it?”

“On our morning run.”

“Points for creativity. Now, where’s this body I’m supposed to look at?”

* * *

Janice—well, Janice was harder.

He hadn’t spoken to her since their argument two weeks previously—still wouldn’t be speaking to her if it hadn’t been for the engagement, but she and Katie were the only family he had, and he wanted them to be at the wedding. He didn’t know if she’d say yes, but he had to try.

With a sick feeling in his stomach, he dialled her number. When it went to voicemail, he nearly sighed with relief. Sure, it meant he’d have to deal with her later, but he didn’t have to deal with it _now_.

“Yeah, it’s me. So, Mycroft and I are getting married, and I’d like you to be at the wedding. Phone me when you can.”

Fifteen minutes passed. He’d expected to wait longer.

Mycroft heard it ring and joined him in the living room for moral support.

“Hey,” she said, her voice hesitant.

“Hey. Thanks for calling back.”

“So you’re getting married?”

“Yeah.”

“Same guy?”

Greg ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “Yes,” he said, trying not to sound too irritated.

“Right.” She was silent for a few seconds. “Katie asked why you weren’t at her party.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you were too busy.”

He didn’t reply. There were worse things she could have told her.

“She’s upset that you aren’t around anymore.”

“I told you before: Mycroft’s part of my life, and you have to deal with that before I can be part of yours.”

There was a long pause. “When’s the wedding?”

“We haven’t set a date yet. So you’ll come?”

“I suppose. It’s what Mum would have wanted.”

“Yeah, she would. Perhaps we could all meet up at the park sometime. I’d like Katie to meet Mycroft.”

“Okay.” She didn’t sound thrilled about the idea, but she hadn’t said no, either.

“Great. Thanks. That’d be good.”

“Sure.”

“Can I talk to Katie?”

There was a long silence, and he checked his phone to see if she’d hung up, praying she hadn’t, but then he heard Katie’s high-pitched voice on the line.

“Uncle Greg?”

“Hey sunshine,” he said fondly. “How are you?”

“I’m good. Why couldn’t you come to my party?”

“I’m really, really sorry about that, sweetie.” He decided to let Janice’s lie stand. “I had to work. But we’re going to meet up in the park soon instead. That’ll be fun, yeah?”

“Really?” she said, sounding thrilled.

“Yeah. We’ll have a picnic and everything.”

“Yay! I missed you, Uncle Greg.”

“I missed you too, sunshine. I’ll talk to you soon, yeah?”

“Yeah, bye!”

Greg hung up and collapsed against the cushions, emotionally exhausted.

“You did well,” Mycroft said. “You’d make a good diplomat.”

He gave him a weak laugh. “It’s a start.”

* * *

Greg walked into the bedroom and found Mycroft flailing around with a lint roller.

He probably shouldn’t have laughed.

“You want some help?”

“Bloody corgis; the fur gets everywhere. You think she’d be able to keep them off the furniture.”

He’d been with Mycroft long enough to know that ‘she’ was the Queen, and that their meetings were frequent enough that they no longer merited a ‘Bloody hell, you met the Queen?’

Greg smirked and took the lint roller from him, removing the light-coloured hairs that littered his suit. They really were everywhere. “When are we supposed to meet them?” ‘Them’ being Mycroft’s parents, not the royal family.

“Seven.” Mycroft glanced at him and frowned slightly.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to change into my good suit.”

“Thanks. I asked them to come here, but they wanted to go out somewhere nice to celebrate.”

“Here’s ‘nice’.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Don’t get me started.”

Greg chuckled. “Relax. It’ll be fun.” He leaned over to kiss him. “Say it with me: ‘It’ll be fun.’”

Another eye-roll, and a resigned ‘It’ll be fun.’

“There, see? And even if it’s an unmitigated disaster—which it won’t be—you’ll have amazing sex to look forward to when you get home.”

For the first time since Greg had walked into the room, Mycroft smiled. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Mycroft sat on the bed and waited for him to finish getting changed. Examining his trousers, he found another tell-tale Corgi hair. He chuckled to himself. “Did I ever tell you about Mrs Chenowyth’s dog?”

“No. Who’s that?”

“My old neighbour, the one whose flat burned down.”

“Oh, right. She was in Spain.”

“Yes, with the dog, thank goodness.”

“So what about the dog?”

Mycroft didn’t reply for a second, and Greg stopped doing his tie in the mirror long enough to turn around and look. Mycroft was blushing.

“Well, I had this horrible idea—technically it was Anthea’s idea—back when I was trying to meet you. I thought if I had a dog, I could take it for a walk in the park and ‘accidentally’ meet you on one of your runs.”

“I’m impressed—you were having my whole running route surveilled?”

“No, just speculation on my part. There was a park nearby—if I ran, I’d run through it.”

“Which you now do, and you do,” Greg pointed out with a grin.

“Mm. Anyway, I didn’t have a dog, and I didn’t _want_ a dog, so I asked Mrs Chenowyth if I could borrow hers. For the morning. To see if I was compatible with small dogs.”

_“Compatible?”_

“Yes. Well. I just wanted to take it for a walk and see if I could run into you, but I didn’t have a very good story going in, and she called my sanity into question—to say nothing of my fitness as a potential dog owner.”

Greg exploded with laughter. “Oh my God, that’s priceless! Wait, though—what would you have done if it’d worked?”

“I’m not sure. As I said, I hadn’t really thought it through. Dodged a bullet, really.”

Greg was still giggling. “I can’t believe you almost stole a dog to meet me.”

“Borrowed. Big difference.”

Greg turned back to finish knotting his tie with a huge grin on his face. “No one’s ever stolen a dog for me before.”

“Borrowed. Thought about borrowing. Oh God, I can’t believe I told you. You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Not a word. Ever.” He kissed him. “I promise.”

Compared to the dog story, the dinner with Mycroft’s parents was almost anticlimactic.

They were overjoyed.

Mummy got a bit teary, and she begged them to have a large wedding. Mycroft rolled his eyes and agreed.

She begged him to let her do all the planning, and he eagerly agreed to that.

His dad gave Greg a hearty handshake and welcomed him into the family. At that point, Greg got a bit choked up.

Lying in bed that night, still warm and fuzzy from the wine, Greg asked him, “Are they always like that?”

“Unfortunately.”

“It’s nice.”

“You haven’t endured Christmas yet.”

“How bad can it be?”

“Relentlessly cheery.”

Greg rolled over and kissed him. “Well, now you’ll have me to distract you.”

* * *

Neither of them slept well the night before; they were too nervous, too excited. They’d finally fallen asleep properly around four, but all too soon, the alarm on Greg’s phone went off.

He turned it off and rolled over to share the patch of sunlight covering Mycroft’s side of the bed. Draping his arm over Mycroft’s shoulder, he placed a kiss on the back of his head.

“Hey gorgeous, time to wake up.”

He got a muffled groan in response and then, “Too early.”

“We’ll be late if we don’t get up soon.”

Mycroft rolled over to face him. Sleep had unleashed the normally-tame curl in his hair and it made him not only ‘gorgeous’ but ‘adorable’ as well. Greg wanted to kiss every one of the freckles on his face, but he settled for a quick peck on the lips.

“What if it’s a disaster? There are going to be so many people.”

“We don’t have to do this,” Greg said, gently.

Mycroft smiled. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we do.”

“Tea?”

“No, coffee; I’m going to need it. Thanks, love.”

Greg started fiddling with the espresso machine and heard him get into the shower. Making two lattes, he took them back into the bedroom, where Mycroft had set out their clothes on the bed. He walked into the bathroom, nursing his coffee.

“Tell me I’m going to get through this,” Mycroft said as he shampooed his hair.

“You’re going to get through this. It’ll be fine. In a few hours, it’ll all be over.”

“You say that like it’s a death sentence.”

“You know what I mean.” Greg tossed him a towel as he got out and took a hurried shower of his own. An underlying current of nervous energy seemed to flow through both of them.

Mycroft covered his face in shaving creme, and he slowly and thoroughly removed every trace of bristle.

“You could have used the electric one,” Greg said.

“I’m not going to look scruffy for the pictures.”

“Oh, those things never come out anyway. Everyone always looks half-dead.”

Mycroft turned to him, face full of shaving creme, and smiled. “Then they aren’t making enough of an effort.”

Greg shook his head, amused. “You say that now…”

Back in the bedroom, they got dressed, leaving their shoes for last.

“Make sure you tie them well.”

“I’m usually the one giving style advice,” Mycroft teased.

“Trust me on this one.”

“You know what’s funny? I think I was less nervous at our wedding.”

“There weren’t 20,000 people at our wedding.”

“No. It just seemed that way.”

He helped Mycroft pin the race bib onto his running jersey, then they went out to brave the madness of the London 10K Run.

* * *

They spilled out of the Kensington tube station with swarms of other tired runners. The ride home—there was no way to drive, and they certainly weren’t up for the walk—had been almost as crowded and claustrophobic as the race itself.

Mycroft didn’t feel as bad as he’d expected—after all, the race lasted less time time than most of their training runs did these days—but the sheer logistics of running with 20,000 other people made it infinitely more stressful and exhausting than an early-morning run in Kensington Gardens.

“Do I look half-dead?”

Greg gave him a glance and pretended to mull it over. “Maybe only an eighth dead. A quarter, tops.”

Mycroft gave him an exhausted but satisfied grin.

“I told you you’d do great,” Greg said. “52 minutes is a fantastic time. You see what I mean about the photos, though?”

“Mm. I don’t imagine they’ll be very flattering.” The race organisers snapped automatic photos of every runner crossing the finish line, triggered by the timing chip on the back of the race bib. The pictures rarely had any redeeming qualities beyond the purely sentimental.

“I’m getting them printed and framed anyway,” Greg said. “You have to commemorate this somehow.”

“I’d rather frame the bib.” He’d framed Greg’s old football jersey as a surprise when they’d moved in together; he could imagine doing the same with this. He already felt oddly sentimental about the crumpled Tyvek square. He’d been number 11393; the digits were all odd and the number was prime—very aesthetically pleasing in a mathematical sort of way. Greg said it should have been 00007.

“We can do that too, but everyone has shitty race pictures. They’re a badge of honour. We don’t have to put it them the living room.”

“Dear Lord, I should hope not.”

“You should be really proud of yourself. It took me years to get the nerve to do one of these.”

“Mm, well I’m not sure I would have unless you’d goaded me into it.”

“You didn’t take very much goading.”

“True. I wanted to see if I could do it.”

“And now you know,” Greg said, squeezing his hand.

They walked up the short hill to the house, finishing the last of their water from the race. The afternoon wasn’t particularly hot, but it was abnormally sunny, and Mycroft found himself glad for the existence of industrial-strength sunscreen.

“I got you a surprise,” Greg said. He unlocked the door, beaming. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, for doing the race. Want some water?”

“Mm, thanks.”

Greg got some bottles of cold sparkling water from the fridge and poured them into tall glasses. “Here, you take these. Hang on a sec, I have to get it ready.”

Mycroft watched as he ran up the stairs and went out onto the rooftop garden. They often spent warm evenings sitting out here, but it tended to be too sunny during the day.

“What are you doing?” he called up to him.

“Hang on a sec; almost done.”

“Do you want some grapes?”

“Sure, thanks.”

As he got them from the fridge, he heard a disturbing thump. “You all right?”

“Yeah. All good. Nothing to see here.”

“You’re making me worry,” Mycroft called up.

Greg bounded back down the stairs wearing a massive grin. “It’s ready. Here, let me get those. Come on.” He took the drinks and headed back up to the garden. Mycroft followed. “Now, it’s not quite what I’d asked for, but I think they got it close enough.”

Mycroft stepped out into the garden and gaped at the sight in front of him. A three-metre tall umbrella protruded from the centre of their patio table—not a traditional patio umbrella, but a massive, Mycroftian-brolly version, stately and black. It cast a lovely patch of shade across the table and the surrounding chairs.

“They couldn’t make it push open the same way; you have to use the crank. And there’s no sword. Other than that, it’s pretty much the same. They said you can even use it in the rain if you want to.”

“Where… where did you _find_ it?”

“You like it?”

“I love it. But I thought you were joking when you’d mentioned it before.”

“Oh, I was just being silly, but then I thought it’d be fun to have one made. As far as I know, it’s the only one of its kind.” He pulled a chair out for Mycroft. “Here, give it a go. SPF 75.”

“Really? No sunscreen needed?”

“None. You can sit out here all afternoon if you want.”

They both sat down, relaxing in the shade with their cold water and the chilled grapes. It felt so refreshing after the heat and the madness of the run.

“This is amazing. Thank you.”

Greg chuckled. “Glad you like it.”

“You know, if someone had told me last year that running would change my life, I wouldn’t have believed them.”

“Yeah, funnily enough, neither would I.”

“Love you,” Mycroft said, leaning in for a kiss.

“Love you too, gorgeous.”

  


_{the end}_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this! The feedback I've had has been so lovely and gratifying, and I've really appreciated it. 
> 
> I've been writing up some Author's Notes - sort of a process document about how I wrote this and how I (rather obsessively) chose the locations for the story. It's unlikely to be of interest to you unless you write, but I'll add it (or a link to it) as another chapter here when it's finished. 
> 
> It's possible I'll write more in this AU in the future. I spent so much time here and love it so much that I can't imagine leaving it completely. The story [Cranes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1782526) is written in the same AU, about three years in the future.
> 
> I am currently planning to do a podfic. I estimate it will be about eight hours long, and it's going to take me a while to record (possibly a very long while). I'll add it to the [DI Series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/142584), so if you subscribe to that, you should get a notification. I'll also add any new stories in this AU to the series. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading and for all the commenty love. It made the five months it took to write this worth every second. :) You guys are great.


	12. Photographs of real-life locations from The DI and the Spy 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The locations in this story were based on real places. I took pictures. (Note: These pictures contain spoilers for the story.)

Most of the story takes place in the Kensington and Holland Park areas of London.

This is Mycroft's house where Greg first spots him during his morning run (in the original story).

This is Greg's neighbourhood: Holland Park. His flat is a mental composite based on a location, so it doesn't have a picture. But, if you're interested, it's located on Clarendon Road. The walk to Mycroft's house, according to my phone, should take 36 minutes. I can only presume their legs are longer than mine. (That wouldn't take much. I'm sure Greg and Mycroft could do it in that time.) Greg's local pub is where he meets Sally for drinks after his first weekend at Mycroft's family home. Holland Walk is a pedestrian path bordering Holland Park, and the perfect place for a run.

Mycroft's family home is another vaguely composite place. Littlecote House in Wiltshire provided an appropriate Elizabethan manor house and the surrounding countryside for some of that.

This is New Scotland Yard and the surrounding area. The park where they ate lunch is directly adjacent to the NSY buildings--you can see them in the background. The pub is adjacent to the park.

Mycroft's new house is north of Kensington High Street in a quiet residential area. You can see the raised garden on the right hand side of the image. Mycroft suggests they go for Sunday dinner at this local pub.

Greg proposed to Mycroft in Kensington Gardens, the park surrounding Kensington Palace. The Sunken Garden is surrounded by natural arched arbours. The Round Pond is where they spend their Sunday morning relaxing before Greg goes to Katie's recital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Disclaimer: I only used these places as inspiration for the locations in my story. No direct association with the actual buildings or businesses is intended. (So please don't sue me if you own the Starbucks or Littlecote House or one of the pubs.) All the images are mine except for the ones of Littlecote House, which are in the public domain._


	13. Author's Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've written some rambling Author's Notes for this story. There's no new story content here, just some information on my process and how the plot evolved.

I thought it would be useful (for me) to write a meta on how I wrote this so I'll remember it later. Author’s notes. A few of you I’ve spoken to have seemed interested, so I'm putting them online.

If you’re not a writer or someone who can get obsessed with research, you might not find this very interesting. (You might not find it interesting even if you are. This is from the POV of someone who is learning writing as they go, and these observations could be very obvious to anyone with a background in writing.) Anyway, that caveat aside, here you go. 

* * *

I wrote the original story, [The DI and the Spy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/558609), from a three-word prompt: “Greg runs. Rom-com.”

MystradeDoodles (now KowabungaDoodles) came up with it during one of her Livestream sessions. It later got expanded into: “Non-established fic. Greg likes to run in the early morning. The very early morning. Perfect Romcom fodder. Sweaty sexy Greg in the morning excuse.” And really, who could resist an excuse to write sweaty, sexy Greg? I know I couldn’t.

There was some sort of vaguely-defined challenge which involved a deadline and a 10,000 word minimum. It seemed like an awful lot of words.

I don’t remember how long it took me to write it, but I do remember that it flowed. (I also remember pushing like mad to make the deadline.) To be honest, I don’t remember much of anything about the writing process. I knew Mycroft would end up spying on Greg, because—well—he’s Mycroft. But I didn’t want Greg to be the oblivious recipient; I wanted him to do some observing of his own. Greg’s a detective. He notices things. Things like people watching him from windows. Sexy people. Sorry—if you’re reading this, you probably already know the storyline!

I’d stayed in a hotel on Cromwell Road on a previous trip to London. The ‘Irene Adler’-style townhouses left a huge impression, and when it came time to locate Mycroft’s flat, it seemed like an obvious choice. I had vague grasp of the area from my visit, but most of my ‘research’ was (and is) done with Google Maps “Street View”. Bing’s “Bird’s Eye View” is also helpful—it shows a slanted angle that sometimes reveals more information about the buildings than ground level or straight-down imagery. So that gave me the original location.

I wasn’t a great authority on running. I’d run a little in the past, but it had been a few years. I wasn’t thinking closely about pace times and working backwards to make sure all the timings lined up properly. Someone called me out on that in the comments - on one morning his pace/mile makes no sense if you’re reading closely. I was mortified. For all my research into the location, I’d screwed up something really basic. It was a good lesson: if you’re going to give details, back them up and make sure they’re logical.

I wasn’t compulsive with research for that story. I knew where Mycroft lived. I knew Greg lived ‘a couple miles’ away. (Enough for the timing to work out for when he passed Mycroft’s house.) I knew Mycroft could walk to Kensington Gardens and sit in the park. I knew his house had a bay window where he could sit and eat breakfast (and watch Greg). It’s probably for the best that I didn’t try and get any more detailed than that, or I never would have finished it. (That might not be true, but it would have taken me longer.)

I had a blast writing it. I love writing humour. I grew up reading Douglas Adams and I am always happiest when I can make people laugh with my writing. I wasn’t trying to write porn for a change, just a cheesy romantic comedy. Awkward humour is gold as far as I’m concerned.

I never, ever thought I’d write a sequel.

Some people had asked for one, and I even wrote a few hundred words of something godawful that remains in a “burn this” folder somewhere. I decided the original was a standalone story—they’d got together, after all—and left it at that.

About a month later, I decided to give podfic a try. Not being one to start out small, I chose this story. As it turns out, it was the longest one I ever made (at 1 hour 15 minutes). I never expected it to be so well-received, but I still get people randomly telling me, “Oh, I listen to this all the time.” It blows me away, because I don’t really listen to podfic and never considered the replay value.

Then, I thought, it was really done. I mean, what else would I do with it?

And then Season Three happened. More to the point, Mycroft running on a treadmill in The Sign of Three happened. When I saw that, I nearly fell out of my chair. My first thought was “Oh my god, he took Greg up on those running lessons!” Some people wrote to me asking if I was going to write a sequel. I seriously started to consider it. I started writing it on February 14, 2014 - Valentine’s Day. (Awww.) It wasn’t a conscious decision about the date, and the only reason I know this is that it’s date-stamped on my Scrivener files. 

* * *

_[There are major spoilers below this, so if you haven’t read the story yet, you shouldn’t read any further!]_

So, as soon as I started writing this, I hit the proverbial wall of writer’s block. What would I write about? They’ve met, and Mycroft takes Greg up on the offer of running lessons. Okay, great. Where’s the interest in that? There needed to be something more compelling. It was obviously going to be a “developing relationship” story, so there was some material there. I couldn’t have them just going out and running every day—that would have been about as interesting as watching paint dry.

I considered going with the “class differences” trope, and I did to an extent, but I feel like it’s been done to death and I didn’t want it to completely centre on that. I toyed with the idea of having Mycroft teach Greg something equally out of Greg’s scope of knowledge (perhaps horseback riding or fencing or something), and dismissed that idea as horrible and awkward. (The writing process is not magical. Trust me.) I had no idea how to move the story along.

The only thing I knew was that they were getting together. They were going on a date. I’m not one to plan out stories—I’m more of a “pantser”—someone who writes by the seat of their (American) pants and hopes for the best. It’s a writing term; people are “plotters” or “pantsers”. I think it’s a horrible term, but there you are. I always want to plot things out but it just doesn’t always work for me. So, I started writing without any real direction.

What resources do I have to work with? Insecure Mycroft, slightly insecure Greg, and two guys who haven’t been in the dating pool for a good ten years. That’s got to be awkward, right? Okay, awkward first date. I can work with that. Put it in an awkward location—Mycroft will never have been in a Starbucks, and I’d already introduced the Starbucks in the first story. Now I have the setting for their first date.

I start writing. The first date stuff flows pretty well. I start writing the second date and the running shop. I’m writing another Mystrade story at the same time, one that still hasn’t (and might never) see the light of day. It gets confusing for me as the AUs get mixed together in my head. I’m about 10,000 words into each of them (which is a _lot_ of effort) and I decide that I’m going to work on this story exclusively.

_[Seriously, I wasn’t kidding about the spoilers. Quit now if you haven’t read it and don’t want to be surprised.]_

I still didn’t have a good plot. Fluff, fluff, fluff. Sex? Yes. Some plot about first dates and developing relationships? Yes. Something meaty to hang everything from? No.

They always say to “Put your characters through hell.” “Make them suffer.” “No one likes to read about everything going right all the time.” (I actually disagree with the last point. In fanfic especially, sometimes you do want to read that, because happy fluff is a good antidote for real world stress. It might not get you published in the world of original fiction but there is a definite place for it in fanfic. Anyway, I digress.) For a long-form fic, which this was turning out to be, I did want some sort of conflict.

An aside about story length: I never intended the story to turn out this long. At first, I expected it to be about 20-25,000 words. Then it passed that, and I thought, “perhaps 35,000 at most”. Then 45,000. It kept going up. At some point, I stopped worrying about it and just went with it. Some people enjoy long-fic!

I don’t remember when I came up with the idea for the fire. For some reason, I think I’d just got out of the shower or something equally mundane like that. Most of my “thinking” about the story and the plot takes place as often during my day-to-day activities as it does when I sit down to write. Car rides to do the shopping are a great source of ideas for me. I call it “side thinking”—pondering a problem in the background while you’re doing something that requires your immediate attention (like driving). If I’m stuck on something, I’ll often go off and do something mundane to see if that unsticks me. A lot of the time, it does.

I guess my point is that I spend an awful lot of time living in the AU, processing it in my head, deciding what the characters will do in any given situation, or just how they react to the world in general. How is it that Mycroft is so awkward socially while so adept at his job? What is the backstory for his previous relationships? What about Greg’s backstory? How do they react with the other people in their social circles? Sometimes these things don’t make it into the story, but often times they do. These are the random things I think about when I’m going about the rest of my life, and I think they’re vital to coming up with a coherent, believable world. (This is also why I find it hard to work on more than one thing at a time. It’s hard to immerse yourself in more than one world at a time.)

So: the fire. What happens if one of the character’s worlds is literally destroyed? What does that do to a relationship? Initially I wrote it so that they both escaped the fire and “gosh, wasn’t that lucky, no one got hurt.” I worked down that line of thinking for quite a few thousand words—a quick trip to the hospital to get checked out, and now they have to deal with Mycroft’s burnt-out flat but not much else. Perhaps he moves in with Greg. Hilarity ensues. Something nagged at me. Nope. It was too easy. What if it wasn’t that easy?

Having Mycroft get injured in the fire was difficult for me to write. I don’t like to deliberately hurt my characters. I find it emotionally traumatic to write and it’s something I prefer not to do. Still, I’d decided to do it, and I was going to suck it up and do it. I trashed the few thousand words I’d written about them getting out okay and started rewriting it so they didn’t.

I’d already started doing research into locations—I’ll talk about that elsewhere—but I had to find the closest hospital to Mycroft’s house. I started reading up on smoke inhalation articles in medical journals online to find out how it’s treated. I freely admit that how I portray it in the story isn’t exactly how it’s treated in real life. There are complications that can occur more than a day later, and they probably wouldn’t have let Greg go the same day. Still, call it poetic licence or however you want to put it; the fundamentals are there.

Do your research; make it real to yourself before you write about it. You can’t convince the reader of something if you don’t know what you’re talking about at a basic level. I actually went back after the fact and took out a lot of the details I’d written in (about the treatment of smoke inhalation, the detailed locations of minor settings, and lots of other small things that no one really cares about).

There’s such a thing as being too detailed to the point where the reader doesn’t care. Do they want to know exactly what sort of medicine is being used or how it’s being administered? Probably not. Not unless it’s relevant to the story somehow. It’s the same thing with outlining the precise details of Greg’s running route: just because I know it, it doesn’t mean the readers will want to read exactly how to reproduce it (not in the story, at least)!

All that being said, you’ll probably get at least one reader who _does_ know about the details and might call you out on it in the comments. Don’t let it get to you.

Since the beginning of the hospital part is written (quite necessarily) from Greg’s point of view, I put myself in his shoes at first. What would it be like to survive a fire? Not just emotionally, but logistically? That was an eye-opener. No keys, no wallet, no clothes, no shoes, no phone. Everything you take for granted is gone. You are completely reliant on other people for help. What if some of those people don’t want to help you? What if you don’t want them to help you?

It’s worth noting that the subplot about Janice and her homophobia didn’t occur to me until much later. Originally I had Sally come and pick him up (quite happily and with no consequences). When I later wrote about Janice, I realised this was a great way to introduce her and her issues with Greg. Weaving that in as a subplot, and a few other things like this, I was very glad that I wasn’t publishing it serially. If I’d been publishing as I went—which I’d done with almost all my stories up until this point—I’d have been in a world of hurt with regards to plot and character development.

My writing process is simple: get to know your characters; place them in a situation; see what they do; write about it. By this point, I’d been working on the story for quite some time—more than a month. I’d been living in the character’s heads for a while. I’d (finally) found a juicy situation with the fire, now I could just react and write about it. Putting characters in a really foreign situation like that does a lot to crystallise things. Greg found out how much he cared for Mycroft already. Mycroft found how much he needed Greg for emotional support. These things deepened the characters and gave me even more to work with.

I’m not going to go through every plot point here, just in case you’re worried! But it was at this point that I started thinking about character growth as well as plot arc. I don’t have a background in writing, and these are things I’m still learning and picking up from articles I reblog on tumblr. But I started to consider ‘character questions’. What flaws did Mycroft have and how did he need to grow? What about Greg? What obstacles stood in their way in their relationship? Well, now I had a pretty big obstacle: Mycroft was stuck in the hospital.

They say “Write what you know.” Real life can be a resource for stories. A friend of mine was in a bad marriage and she’d finally decided to tell her husband she wanted a divorce. The day she planned on telling him, he was in a car accident that required about a month of recuperation at home. She didn’t feel it was appropriate to tell him that she wanted a divorce on the heels of that, and so she waited for almost a year, until he was fully healed. Now, obviously that doesn’t happen here—Greg isn’t visiting Mycroft out of a sense of duty—but certainly Mycroft would wonder if that is the case. What sort of strain would a medical event put on a brand new relationship? It’s an interesting mental exercise and an interesting topic. At least it was to me.

What about subplots? It’s really easy for me to get caught up in the main plot and forget to tie it into anything else. The only real subplot I have going on is the one with Janice. However, there are minor things like Mycroft’s past relationship and how that affects his interactions with Sherlock regarding Greg. Mycroft’s interactions with his parents—especially in a hospital setting where you can’t “escape” from prolonged interaction—became an issue worth writing about. Minor characters, and how your characters relate to them, are key to fleshing out your story. I had already written about Janice and Katie in another story ( _Cranes_ ), set about five years after this. I wrote that while I was working on this story, and the events there had a direct influence on her actions (mainly answering the question, “why is she so cold towards Mycroft in that story?”)

So, I’d had the fire. I’d had some happy fluff. What did I need now? More conflict. It’s difficult to write conflict into characters you feel are so well-matched, so sometimes you have to manufacture it. The class/money issue, as I mentioned before, is a well-used trope—and not without reason. I decided to use Greg’s issues with money to motivate the drunk-call and the emotional fallout. Another very difficult sequence to write, as was the third conflict—Greg’s showdown with Janice. It’s hard for me to write angst, but it has to be done.

Mycroft’s introverted nature provided another plot point. As an introvert, dealing with extroverts is an issue I’ve always found fascinating.

The running. This story—at least the first one—had been motivated by the running element. I obviously wanted to continue that theme in this story, but it wasn’t easy with part of the story set in a hospital and Mycroft unable to exert himself in any real way. This was another case where I went back and wove things into the story after I’d written the first draft, mostly concerning Greg’s own use of running as a means of stress relief. The later training they did fell in quite naturally. When it came time to do the ending, I really started getting nervous. I hate endings. I suck at endings. They always strike me as such a letdown and incredibly boring, and perhaps that’s why I enjoy writing never-ending serials so much. I have way too much of a tendency towards “and they all cuddled on the bed”. My original thought on the ending had been “wedding” or “honeymoon” or “sex on Mycroft’s plane” (something I still wonder if I should have included). But then, in another episode of side-thinking, I realised I could make the ending sound like they were preparing for a wedding when they were actually preparing for Mycroft’s first competitive run. It might not be as clever as I’d like to think, but I was very pleased with myself at the time. It ties into the larger theme of the story and still gives the reader a bit of a surprise, I hope.

* * *

**_Locations, or “Why I am an obsessive weirdo.”_ **

(Although I prefer the term ‘thorough’.)

As I wrote this, I came up with specific locations for every place in the story. Really specific. I’m not just talking about “Mycroft moved to a house near Kensington Gardens.” I mean when I visited London in August, I went and saw it—the specific house I’d found online and used (mentally) in my story. Same with Greg’s flat, Mycroft’s old house, Greg’s Starbucks, his original running route, the route they took when they walked from the Starbucks to Mycroft’s flat on their first date, even Janice’s house … you get the idea.

This might be a bit obsessive (well, especially visiting the locations in person after the story is already written!), but it allows me to visualise the story. It also makes for accurate timings. (How long would it take Janice to get to Kensington, for example?)

I started out with my only known quantity: where Mycroft lived. I decided their first date from the Starbucks would be about a half an hour’s walk—about two miles or so at a reasonable pace. I searched for some locations within two miles of Mycroft’s flat and checked the estate agents’ listings online to find out what types and price ranges of rental properties were available. They also have handy floorplans for their listings—more good visualisation materials.

Greg started out with a place in Hammersmith (too commercial of an area from what I could tell online) and quickly moved to Shepherd’s Bush. He had a place in a dingy high-rise for a while, until someone on tumblr pointed out that he’d be making a decent living as a DI, at which point he moved to a nice, quiet street of row houses. (There was a place on the market here—a ground level flat with a floor plan online! A gold mine of information.) He stayed there for quite a while, until it became obvious that the Starbucks was too far away and too out of the way to pop in to after a run. Damn. Poor Greg, moving again, this time to the other side of Shepherd’s Bush Common where he could be more logically located near a Starbucks. But my god, there was a lot of construction, and traffic, and it generally wasn’t a fun place to be running. Nope. Greg needed to move again. Happily, Holland Park was just down the road. I will freely admit that my choices of location were narrowed down by the Starbucks locations. Then, if the timing worked, I’d start searching that area for valid houses/flats. I found two options in Holland Park, both near the Starbucks, which happened to be right next to the Holland Park tube station. I’d found Greg’s flat. (Sort of. It took me ages to decide which one was “actually” going to be the flat between the two choices.)

What’s important to note here is that none of this really mattered for the story (at least not then). Greg’s flat didn’t change anything about their first date or the walk back to Mycroft’s flat. It would have changed things much later when Mycroft gets his new house; Greg would have had much farther to run to include Mycroft on his route. Thankfully, by the time I got to that part of the story, he was happily (mentally) ensconced in Holland Park. Extensive “wandering” in Google Street View confirmed my choice of location. (Extensive wandering in person when I visited later made me insanely happy—it was perfect!)

Why do I bother? I’m not sure. Could I make the story as believable without knowing exactly where everyone lives and what sort of traffic is on the running route? Maybe. Is it as real for me? No. I like (and need) a place to be fully formed in my mind in order to write about it easily. This is another situation where I took a lot of detail out after the fact: specific locations and tube stations and roads aren’t relevant to the story. Most readers will never go to these places and won’t care if Greg has to change from the District Line to the Central Line to get from Mycroft’s new house to his flat.

Visiting the places in person—especially around New Scotland Yard—did actually inspire some rewrites/polishing. There’s a small park near the Met that’s perfect for having lunch. In London, there’s a 20% tax on eating food inside restaurants/cafes, which means most people get their lunch as takeaway and eat in the park. It made it the perfect spot for Greg and Mycroft to sit. The pub where I originally had them meet Sally was far too long of a walk—I didn’t want to go there on the hot day I visited. They ‘went’ to the pub right next to the park instead. A trip to the real-life running shop made me realise it was literally a few blocks from the Met—certainly nothing Greg would take the tube for (as he had originally)! Again, these are things most people will neither know nor care about, but it all fits together in my mind, and it works as a cohesive world.

The other big location for the story, Mycroft’s manor house, required a slightly different approach. I knew I wanted it to be about an hour outside of London (without traffic). I found a site online that listed all the historic (“listed”) homes for each county. I went through them, clicking on each until I found something that ‘worked’ in my head visually. The place I found was larger than I’d imagined, but it worked with the general area and style of house. Again - not necessary, and the house could have been anything, anywhere, but it gave me a picture in my head as I told the story. Having pictures of it gave me an idea of the surrounding countryside as well.

So, what’s the takeaway from all this? I spend a lot of time location hunting. Would that time be better spent writing? Possibly. Is it something I care enough about to do anyway? Definitely. I’m not sure I’d recommend it; it can be crazy-making. But it’s fun.

* * *

**_Logistics, or "How Scrivener saved my sanity."_ **

Some notes on the logistics of writing a 70,000 word story, and they’re all about Scrivener. ([www.literatureandlatte.com](http://www.literatureandlatte.com)) If you’re not using it, you’ll probably want to skip the rest of this as it’s very Scrivener-specific.

I’d been using the program for quite some time, but it wasn’t until I started writing this that I really delved into some of its more useful features. Perhaps the biggest change to my workflow was dividing each part of the story into scenes. Each scene takes place in a different time (or location) or from a different character’s point of view.

At first, I didn’t try to impose any artificial organisation (chapter breaks) onto the scenes; I just wrote them. Writing in such small chunks did help me plot out things a bit more than I normally would. I could take an idea, see the logical steps to get from Point A to Point B, create a scene from each one, then write the scenes. Scrivener is ideally set up for this and even has a “corkboard” mode where you can move scenes around and view summaries, keywords, status, and the like.

I’m not going to go into all the features of Scrivener. There are a lot, and it has quite a steep learning curve if you want to learn all of them. I suggest downloading the trial and going through their tutorial. It’ll help you get the basics.

Here are a few of the specific things I used.

I created “text documents” as scenes, organised under “folders” based on individual days in my storyline. This turned out to be a little problematic later in the process when I shifted from a timeline-based folder system to chapter-based folders. If I were to do it again, I’d group the scenes under general events. If I had a really firm idea of chapter breaks, I’d use those.

I used the “auto-generate synopsis from text” function to remind me what was in each scene. This way, I could see an overview of the scene in cork board mode.

I set up custom Labels to track different properties for the scenes. The main two were “Mycroft POV” and “Greg POV”. I applied “View->Use Label Colour in Binder” so I could see instantly whose point of view each scene was written from. In some cases, I realised I needed to combine two “scenes” into one because the next one was just a little further along in time and from the same POV.

Keywords were another interesting idea I hadn’t explored before. When you have 100+ scenes, it becomes vitally important to be able to find what you’re looking for. Sure, you could search on a word or two from the text—if you remember them—and hope it doesn’t turn up a bunch of hits, but this is far more efficient. Until I started with the keywords, I was relying on timeline date alone to quickly pinpoint and edit a scene. I knew something happened on the second Saturday, so I’d go to the “Second Saturday” folder (in reality, a “Week 2” folder with a “Saturday” subfolder) and find it there. However, as the timeline got longer and longer, this too became less tenable. (All of these subfolders are contained virtually within Scrivener—it’s all in one big file, able to be reshuffled at will.)

Someone wrote a fantastic Scrivener blog post about setting up and searching with keywords. You can find it [here](http://www.pigfender.com/index.php/2013/03/tracking-characters-with-scrivener-keywords).[  
](http://www.pigfender.com/index.php/2013/03/tracking-characters-with-scrivener-keywords)

I set up keywords for Greg, Mycroft, minor characters, locations, topics (fire, medical and running), and writing tone (feels, humour, and sex).

So, once you have them all set up, you can do searches on them. First, set your search type in the upper left hand corner to “Keywords” and “All Words”. Then type in all the keywords you want to apply.

You can get really complex with your searches. For example, I could search on “Mycroft talking to Sherlock about Greg” by using my keywords “Sherlock Greg_mentioned Mycroft”. (This means that both Mycroft and Sherlock are present, and Greg is mentioned.)

On a much more basic level, you can use it to keep track of where you’ve mentioned minor characters. Simply searching on their name will bring up all their scenes. Of course, to do this, you need to keep up with your keywording, but it’s not difficult if you do it as you go along.

You might ask “Why bother? Why not just search on a word in the text?” Well, you could, but this allows you to do much more powerful searches based on character, location, character presence, and even writing tone. For example: “sex” gives us eight scenes, “sex gregs_flat” gives us one, and “sex feels” gives us two scenes where there is both angst and sexual content. When your file is 70,000 words long, it’s handy to be able to search through scenes efficiently.

* * *

I apologise for the long and rambling nature of these notes. I cut a bunch of them and they’re still long and rambling, so I’m just going to publish it or they’ll never see the light of day. Thanks for reading, and I hope you found something interesting.

Finally, I'd like to thank [youcantsaymylastname](http://youcantsaymylastname.tumblr.com) for all her support while I wrote this fic. She talked me down from a lot of _"But I don't know what they're going to do next"_   ledges and put up with countless email updates. I'm very grateful. 

If you have questions about anything in here, feel free to send me an ask on [tumblr](http://chasingriversong.tumblr.com/ask).

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to find me on tumblr, I'm at [chasingriversong](http://chasingriversong.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The DI and the Spy 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6626431) by [chasingriver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/pseuds/chasingriver)




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